Combatant
by shadesunrider13
Summary: "Sometimes one must be sacrificed for the good of many." To prevent global war and devastating loss of life, a new type of warfare arises, in which each country fields a genetically enhanced champion to defend them in the arena, fighting for land, resources, and ideology. One such champion is Khan.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I watched Star Trek Into Darkness and I was very intrigued by Khan's backstory, specifically the line about leading others to peace in a world at war. I've created an AU of sorts for this story. Feel free to PM me if it's confusing, but for now, here are the basics. After the Cuban Missile Crisis, Russia and the U.S. signed a non-proliferation treaty, but tensions continued to rise. A group of countries in South America formed an alliance (the Contras), Western Europe formed a coalition to protect themselves from Russia (the European Union), and the Middle Eastern countries have formed an alliance as well (the Sinai Confederacy).

To prevent global war and devastating loss of life, the United Nations instituted a new form of battle, in which each country or alliance fields a champion, who fights with the champions from the other countries in disputes over land, resources, and anything else two countries might pick a fight about. These champions are genetically enhanced to be the best possible fighters. One such fighter is Khan.

Please review/PM and let me know if I should continue this.

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_the dirty work of battle hymns_

In his earliest memory, he is running through the labyrinth, the sound of his bare feet on the concrete echoing throughout the maze. He is nine years old, or maybe younger, but he doesn't remember anything before this so he might as well be an infant. He careens around corners, running blindly, fighting the urge to scream all the while. The half-light of the maze only makes it worse. Those stains on the wall, the ones he uses to track his position, he think they might be blood. And he's never sure if the footsteps sounding all around him are his own or someone - some_thing_ - else's.

Finally, he breaks. He crawls into a corner, tucks his feet in, and cries. He will never get out of here. He will die, or worse, he'll walk through this twilight forever and never find the way out. He tugs up the sleeve on his left arm and squints at the numbers he knows by heart; 139476, his tattoo. Maybe someday this number will make it into the arenas, etched into someone else's skin. But not his.

"Lost?"

He looks up, horrified, and sees a woman watching him. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and scrambles to his feet, trying to look brave, trying to feel brave. "Who are you?"

She steps into the light and he realizes that it's not just anyone; it's Chalice, the most powerful champion the United States has ever fielded. She's had twenty fights and she's won all of them. "Chalice. Are you lost?"

He shakes his head. It's better to stay lost forever than let the reigning champion know you're lost. "I'm fine, ma'am."

Chalice comes closer, and he sees that she's not nearly as old as he thought she was. She's nineteen or maybe twenty, and the way she smiles at him reminds him of sun and air and trust, things he remembers faintly but not completely. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

She holds out a hand to him, and he takes it carefully. "Come on. I've been in here before and I know the way out."

That was the first time Chalice protected him, but it wasn't the last, and twelve years later, whenever he thinks of Chalice he thinks of that day in the maze.

They are closer than most of the others, closer than they should be. She is like the older sister he doesn't remember, and even though he no longer idolizes her as he once did and he is no longer the nameless trainee lost in the maze, he still trusts her more than anyone else in the compound. She spoke up for him during the vicious years of selection, convinced the researchers and trainers that he was special, tutored him herself until he could beat the other trainees blindfolded.

He asked her why, once. Why him. She'd sat him down in the corner of the training room and pulled a tattered photograph out of her pocket. "This was my brother," she said. "When they wiped my memories, they forgot to take the picture away." She'd smiled at the photograph, but it was a sad smile. He didn't like seeing it. "He was scared of the dark, just like you used to be. And that's why. Come on, Khan. You have sword drills to run."

Khan. The name wasn't his choice, but then again, none of the champions choose their own names. Dr. Singh, the head researcher, chose it for him on the same day Khan learned that he and not his rival would take second position. Second position. The idea is still new to him, even though he's held the rank for more than six months. He is one wrong move of Chalice's away from going into the arena.

That wrong move could happen today, for all he knows. Chalice is still an excellent fighter, but she's thirty-two, scarred from hundreds of fights, six years older than her oldest competitors. Today she fights in an arena in London, in a dispute between Russia and the United States over oil fields in the steppes that both countries have claimed. Her opponent is Taiga, Russia's female champion, and this is one bout that Khan does not want to watch in the hall with the rest of the trainees. They will all be watching, hoping that Chalice will fail and that they themselves will advance further. If he has to sit through that, he'll kill someone.

"Dr. Singh!" He catches up with the man in the corridor, heading the opposite way of everyone else. "I'd like your permission to watch the fight somewhere else."

Dr. Singh peers at him through thick glasses. "Where? You're being presented in two weeks. You know you're not allowed to leave the compound."

Khan's temper flares, but he forces it down. An outburst will reveal much about him and gain him little; best to be polite. "No one on the outside has seen me in a long time. With your permission, I will go to the amphitheater in the park to watch the fight. There are enough people there to camouflage me."

He sees Singh considering it. "All right. I will escort you. It's not safe for you to be wandering around."

Khan tries not to laugh. He is genetically enhanced to the last possible degree, stronger and faster than anyone he will encounter, and this man believes he is not safe? His amusement disappears as he realizes that Dr. Singh expects to be thanked, as though this is some enormous favor that Khan has no right to ask of him. "Thank you."

The compound is not situated far from the park. They walk, Dr. Singh shedding his white coat before they arrive on the street. The doctor moves too slow for Khan's liking; he has to double back multiple times to avoid leaving the man behind. It's infuriating. If he would just put his tablet away…but no, Dr. Singh is tapping away at the screen, oblivious to Khan's impatience.

Finally they reach the amphitheater. By Khan's calculations, they have fifteen minutes until the fight begins - or at least, the various commercials that play before the fight begin. He follows Dr. Singh up the steps and the man stops midway up, motioning for Khan to enter the row of seats first. Khan moves down the row and sits, leaving a space between himself and the next person on the row; a young woman, chattering with her friends. Dr. Singh sits on his other side and keeps fiddling with the tablet. Khan can't help but look at what he's doing, and what he sees makes his blood burn. Dr. Singh is designing genetic enhancements for another champion, and he does this while one of his champions fights and another sits beside him. It's all Khan can do not to grab the tablet and break it over the doctor's head.

To distract himself, he listens in to the conversation of the people around him. The conversation of the girls next to him, oddly enough, prove to be the most interesting; they seem nervous and uncomfortable, and they keep scanning the crowd as though they're looking for someone.

"She said she'd be here."

"She said that last time, Kasha, and she didn't show."

"She'll be here," Kasha repeats. "Professor Wallace will flunk her if she doesn't."

Another girl snorts. "You think Malak cares about getting flunked again? She doesn't give a damn about Contemporary Events and Consequences; she's finished her prerequisites for med school and that's all she cares about."

To Khan, the drive necessary to propel someone to medical school seems incompatible with failing classes, but he'll be the first to admit that he knows little about the outside world. He keeps listening.

"Yeah, but she doesn't graduate unless she passes this class," Kasha says, "and she's flunked it three years in a row. She'll be here."

Kasha glances down the row, past Khan, and visibly relaxes. She points. "See, there's Malak. I told you she'd be here."

Khan follows Kasha's finger and sees a dark-haired woman with a book tucked under her arm picking her way down the row toward them. She has trouble getting past Dr. Singh; he's so absorbed in his genetic design that he fails to hear her asking him to move his feet. Eventually she just shoves through, trips on Khan's foot, and topples into the empty space between him and her group of friends. The book lands in Khan's lap.

"Malak. Glad you could make it," one of the girls says.

Malak nods distractedly and looks at Khan. "I think I stepped on your foot. I'm sorry."

"It's nothing," Khan says. He passes the book back to her.

"You sure?" Malak glances down at her shoes, a pair of black boots with chunky heels. "These things might have crushed your instep."

"I am fine, I assure you," Khan says. It is an annoyance, nothing more, and he's learned over the years to ignore pain. Malak looks at him for a second longer; then she opens her book and starts reading.

Dr. Singh chooses this moment to look up from his work. "Who were you talking to, Khan?"

"I don't know," Khan says. "She stepped on my foot and she apologized."

Dr. Singh nods and goes back to his tablet. Khan's attention, meanwhile, is attracted by the giant screen in the center of the amphitheater, which has begun to play commercials. Most of them are for companies, but several are trailers for new champions and upcoming battles. Russia is planning to introduce a new champion soon, and they're proceeding with a media blitz, hoping to strike fear into the hearts of other countries. Khan has actually met the champion they're advertising, a man called Alexei. He was unimpressive, all savagery and no intelligence, but of course, the second position for Russia's male champion does not need to be excellent. Baikal, Russia's current fighter, is in peak condition.

A commercial for a fight comes on, a dispute between the Sinai Confederacy and Russia that will be decided next week. Baikal will be fighting for Russia. The Sinai will be represented by their only champion; Azrael. Azrael was introduced a year ago. Since then he has had two fights and two losses; one against the champion from the European Union, and another one against Chalice.

Khan taps Dr. Singh's shoulder. "Azrael is fighting Baikal next week."

Singh makes a dismissive noise. "He'll be crushed. If Azrael could not beat Wyvern, he has no chance against Baikal."

While the prevailing view among the researchers is that Azrael is weak, Khan has a different theory. Both of Azrael's fights have been trivial, and both of them have been instigated by the Sinai. In Khan's opinion, Azrael isn't fighting to win; he's fighting to learn, to figure out how to beat the other champions for when it really does matter. Hopefully by the time the Sinai comes up against the United States again, Khan will be fighting and not Chalice.

Chalice. Khan is more worried about her than is probably necessary. She has more fighting experience than any other champion, and best of all, her opponent has never won a fight against her. He does his best to put the worry out of his head and searches for something to distract himself. There's a disturbance beside him. Khan looks back to Malak and Kasha, who are arguing. "You're supposed to be watching."

"I'll watch when it matters," Malak says, eyes still on her book. "Right now it's just commercials."

Khan sneaks a look back at Dr. Singh and decides that he can risk it. "Do you follow the fights?"

"No," Malak says automatically. She looks over at him. "I don't think we've met. I'm Malak Campbell."

Khan shakes her hand and offers his own name in return. Why Dr. Singh insisted on attaching his own name to Khan's, he will never understand. "Khan Noonien Singh. Why don't you follow the fights?"

"I just don't," Malak says with a shrug. "It's not something that appeals to me. What about you? Do you follow the fights?"

Khan doesn't just follow the fights. He lives them, breathes them, studies them over and over again. "Sometimes. What do you know about the fighters today?"

"Chalice is going against that Russian brat," Malak says, "and they're fighting over oil in the steppes."

Khan smirks at Malak's characterization of Taiga. It's rather apt, considering that she's never met the champion and by her own admission doesn't follow the fights. "And you believe this is unimportant?"

"If the U.S. spent as much time developing alternative fuels as we do fighting with Russia over oil, we'd have solved the energy crisis years ago," Malak says. "So no, it's not unimportant, but it's a simple solution to a complicated problem."

"So you believe that Russia should be able to nationalize U.S. holdings in the steppes?" Khan responds. He's studied the conflicts themselves more carefully than most of his fellow trainees, mostly because the monotony of the compound gets to him.

Malak smiles, one side of her mouth tugging up higher than the other. "I told you it was complicated."

"Khan?" Dr. Singh is finally paying attention. "Would you like to introduce me to your friend?"

Friend. Khan glances at Malak, then says, "This is Malak Campbell. Malak, this is Dr. Singh."

"Are you two related, then?" Malak asks as she shakes Singh's hand.

"He's my adopted son," Dr. Singh says, and Khan bristles at the designation. It's a bit presumptuous for Dr. Singh to think that, just because Khan hasn't killed him yet, it's all right for him to claim some familial connection. "Nice to meet you, Malak."

Trumpets sound from the speakers, alerting Khan to the start of the fight, and all of his attention goes to the screen as the arena appears. This time, it's set as a primordial swamp, with small islands scattered throughout and mangrove trees with twisted roots. The terrain changes for every fight, and Khan's practiced eye catalogues the advantages and disadvantages of it, picking out the position he would take if he were the one fighting this battle.

"I think there are crocodiles in there," Malak says.

Dr. Singh squints at his tablet again. "Yes, I think so, too. That should be interesting."

Khan looks at the screen. Dr. Singh has accessed Malak's government file and he's studying it intently. Whether by accident or design, he angles the screen, making it impossible for Khan to see, but not before Khan notices that Malak's scores on intelligence surveys are in the ninety-seventh percentile. Khan himself scored in the ninety-fifth percentile on those same surveys, but then again, one does not have to be a genius to do what he is trained to do. He supposes Dr. Singh thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

Russia instigated this fight, meaning Chalice will be the first to enter the arena. It's a penalty to the aggressor and a small advantage for Chalice. Once she's inside the arena, she will have one minute to establish a position and wait for Taiga's arrival. Chalice comes through the doors, her face set and masklike, the weak sun casting dappled patterns on her dark skin. She lifts one hand, shading her eyes.

Khan knows which position he would set. He would lie in wait as close to the doors as possible and take his opponent by surprise, but Chalice is more cautious than he, and Khan is not surprised when Chalice bolts from the doors and makes for the largest mangrove tree. The cameras zoom in on her face as she tucks herself into the roots, adjusting her knives so they will be easy to reach.

"Is that a good spot?" Malak says to Khan, and he tears his eyes away from the screen to look at her.

"It's not where I would have picked," he says without thinking, and Malak gives him an odd look. Then she glances back at the screen as the countdown to Taiga's arrival reaches its conclusion.

Taiga bursts into the arena with a howl and Khan rolls his eyes. Russia's champions have this sense of the theatrical, both of them; Baikal likes to climb the highest object in the arena and beat his chest like an ape before going on a hunt. Thankfully, Chalice has never been dramatic, and the noise will hopefully alert her to Taiga's position. The camera cuts from Taiga's demented features - no champion is ugly, but she is less attractive than most - and back to Chalice, who is working her way from mangrove to mangrove, searching for the best angle of attack.

Suddenly Malak winces. "Uh-oh," she says.

"What?" Khan demands, but then she shakes her head.

"It might have just been my eyes, but I thought I saw a crocodile in there."

"Where?"

"See, that log -" Malak starts, and then the log she's indicated lunges out of the water toward Chalice, jaws wide open.

Chalice twists aside just in time and the beast flops down into the water, producing a massive splash. It's impossible to miss, even for Taiga, and her lips curve up into an awful smile as she spots Chalice, leaping from island to island in an effort to escape. The Russian champion nocks an arrow to her bow, takes aim, and fires.

Chalice's head snaps up, and Khan knows that her enhanced hearing has alerted her to the fact that she's under attack. She drops, avoiding the shot, and the arrow impacts into a mangrove tree at exactly the same height as her head. Chalice, flat on her back, looks up at the arrow in horror, and she realizes the truth at exactly the same time that Khan does. Taiga wasn't trying to incapacitate Chalice. She was trying to kill her.

Khan turns to Dr. Singh, heedless of Malak sitting right beside him. "Stop the fight."

Dr. Singh's full attention is on the screen at last, but he shakes his head. "I can't. There's no positive proof that Taiga was trying to kill Chalice."

"We all saw it!" Khan spits. "Everyone who was watching this fight saw it, and Taiga has never, in six years of fighting, missed a target she's aimed for. Baikal must have given her orders to -"

Dr. Singh makes an impatient motion with his hand, silencing Khan. "Chalice can survive this situation. She's done it before."

Yes, she has, but that was against the Contra champion Mayari, a weak, untrained fighter, the best that the rebel nations in the south could field. Khan was eleven years old when he watched that fight, and even then he could have beaten Mayari. Fighting against Taiga is another matter entirely. On screen, Chalice rolls to the side to avoid another arrow, and Khan can see her making the calculations in her head. Going into the water with the crocodiles is dangerous, but staying within reach of Taiga's arrows will lead to death. Chalice makes the decision in an instant. She gets to her feet, takes three running steps, and dives headlong into the water.

Khan's heart is pounding in his chest as though it is he and not Chalice beneath the surface of the water. Fear, such terrible fear, is clawing at him, worse than the fear he felt in the maze. He doesn't understand it. He's watched hundreds of fights, seen his fellow trainees pitted against each other thousands of times, and yet, none of them are as important to him as Chalice is. Chalice is kind, Chalice is good, in a place where those traits are stamped out. She cannot die here. Not like this.

Khan turns to Dr. Singh again, ready to shake the man by his shoulders until he calls off the fight or his neck breaks, but then he feels a hand on his arm and he glances down. It's Malak. He rears back, ready to pull himself free, but the expression on her face stops him. "Let go," he hisses.

"If you don't control yourself," Malak says in a low voice that his enhanced hearing picks out over the roar of the crowd, "everyone else will know who you are."

It does not surprise Khan that Malak has made the connection. He was about as indiscreet as it is possible to be without coming right out and announcing that he is part of the program. He nods to show that he understands her and she cautiously lets go. They both look back to the screen. Chalice has yet to resurface, and although Khan knows that her lung capacity allows her to stay underwater for three minutes, he can't stop himself from thinking that she's been attacked by one of the crocodiles.

Chalice surfaces, a dark head in the water behind Taiga's island, and swims toward the Russian champion, silently cutting through the water. Khan is amazed at how much ground she's managed to cover, and the knot of terror in the pit of his stomach relaxes slightly as his friend advances. Chalice draws one of her knives and emerges onto the island, crawling on her belly, and then, in a smooth, practiced motion, she slices through Taiga's Achilles tendon and drops the other woman to the ground.

Taiga's scream is so piercing that the speakers screech as they try to accommodate it. The bow falls from her hand and Chalice seizes it, breaking it in half over her knee and backing up, waiting for Taiga's next move.

"No," Khan hisses. He stares at the screen so long without blinking that the image begins to blur. If it were him in the arena he would not be standing back, allowing his opponent to recover. But Chalice has always been nobler than he. "Finish her!"

The countdown begins, and Khan knows that if Taiga makes no attempt to continue the fight in the next twenty seconds, the fight will be called in Chalice's favor. Chalice obviously thinks that she's dealt the Russian champion a match-ending blow; she's standing still, waiting for the countdown to end. The cameras zoom in on Taiga's face and Khan sees the Russian close her eyes. Then she opens them again and lunges up.

It happens so quickly that Khan himself can barely make sense of it. Taiga, one leg hanging useless, throws herself at Chalice, collaring her around the legs and toppling them both to the ground. The knife flies from Chalice's hand and Taiga, pressing her momentary advantage, pins her opponent down. Chalice arches her back and flips them both, trying to escape. She turns, scrabbling through the rough grass for her knife, and Khan's heart sinks; never turn your back on the enemy. How many times did Chalice drill that into his brain?

A wordless howl rises in his throat as Taiga rips an arrow from her lost quiver, flips it in her hand, and drives it into Chalice's back.

Chalice slumps down to the ground face-first, her lower body going boneless. Khan knows by the angle at which the arrow entered her body, the placement of the strike, that Taiga meant to break Chalice's spine, and she succeeded. The Russian champion limps toward Chalice, leering down at her.

Taiga spits in Chalice's face. She says something in Russian, and Khan does not want to hear it, but he has learned the language too well to stop himself from translating. "Say hello to Liberty when you see her in hell, would you?"

"Tell her yourself," Chalice gasps, and then she throws her second knife.

It is perfectly aimed. The silver blade disappears into Taiga's throat and blood pours from her still-open mouth. A gong sounds somewhere, signaling the end of the fight, and an announcer says, "The fight goes to the United States."

The last thing Khan sees before the screen goes black is Taiga, her knees giving way as she collapses to the ground beside Chalice.

Dr. Singh is snapping at someone on his phone. "I don't care what is going on in there, get her out! Arrange for the nearest transport, and - what? No, cost is not an object. Get her back to the States immediately."

Khan can do nothing but sit there numbly, and Dr. Singh has to shake his shoulder to get his attention. "Khan, we must go now. There are plans to be made."

Khan stands up and moves as if to leave, still in a daze, but Malak's fingers close on his sleeve again. He looks down at her, wondering if she'll let go on her own or if he'll have to break her wrist. "I'm sorry about your friend," she tells him.

Khan just nods, and Malak keeps talking, quickly, furtively, as though she expects Dr. Singh to stop her. "You're in training, aren't you?"

As she says it, it hits Khan for the first time, the truth of this situation. Chalice can no longer fight, and he is second position. "Not anymore," he says. He moves his arm quickly, expecting to dislodge Malak's hand, but she is hanging on tighter than he expected. They look at each other for a second; then Malak deliberately loosens her grip and steps back.

"Good luck," she says to him, and then Dr. Singh tugs hard on Khan's arm and they move into the crowd, shoving through the masses to return to the compound.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to IWillNeverStopFangirling and ChChi-O for reviewing, and also thank you to the people who added this story to alerts and favorites. Enjoy the next chapter. Questions, feedback, comments? Review or PM me.

* * *

_all the kids come home with foreign limbs_

The compound is in an uproar by the time Khan and Dr. Singh return. No one can speak of anything but the fight, so that no matter where Khan goes seeking some measure of respite, he cannot escape the whispers. He cannot escape the other trainees and their dissections of the day's events. His own name invariably pops up - everyone knows that he will replace Chalice - but there is speculation now, because he will need a second position and no one knows who it will be.

Midway, one of the oldest trainees, obviously thinks he does. He gives Khan a furtive grin as they pass in the hall, and Khan has to work hard not to strangle him; the idea of anyone, especially Midway, benefiting from what happened to Chalice is repulsive. Worse, though, are those trainees who clap Khan on the back and offer their congratulations on his sudden advancement. If one more person tells Khan to give _them _- whoever _they _may be - hell, he's going to make sure that the person who said it arrives there sooner than scheduled.

Khan's mood only worsens when his request to meet Chalice's plane at the airport is denied, and this time, he really does lose his temper, lifting up a table from the mess hall and hurling it through a window. Beneath his rage, though, is worry. Chalice may have survived the fight, but the government has no use for a crippled champion, and he's afraid that they will quietly get rid of her. He would not put it past them. He's seen too many weak trainees disappear with no explanation. If not for Chalice's help, he might have been one of them, and that makes him even more determined to save her.

On the walk to Dr. Singh's office, Khan goes over his arguments for keeping Chalice alive in his head, knowing that persuasion is a delicate art and that someone's life hangs in the balance. He cannot appear nervous or overconfident. Khan is so busy thinking through possible objections to his points that he nearly collides with someone else on their way down the hall.

"Midway," he acknowledges the other trainee.

Midway smiles at him easily, friendly as always. Khan knows that out of the two of them, Midway is the more likeable, but the fights are not a popularity contest, and Khan knows which is most important. "Hey, Khan. What brings you down this way?"

"I need to speak with Dr. Singh," Khan says. "What are you doing here, Midway? Dr. Balanchine's office is the other way."

"Balanchine's talking to Singh right now," Midway says, "and she asked me to come up with her. I guess Singh wanted to talk in private, so they sent me back. They'll probably be done by the time you get there."

Khan nods and maneuvers around Midway, moving quickly, but not quickly enough to outpace the inevitable. "Hey, Khan," Midway calls after him as he disappears around the corner, "congratulations."

Khan barely responds, too busy considering the latest development. He'd forgotten that Midway is not the only one who stands to gain from Chalice's injury; Balanchine, the doctor who designed Midway's genetic modifications, does, too. Her status in the project would rise immensely if Midway gained second position. With that in mind, he stops outside the closed door of Dr. Singh's office and cautiously places an ear against the wall, listening in.

Balanchine's voice is the first one he hears. "For the last time, Ravi, this will not work."

"We have to keep up," Dr. Singh says. He adds more, but his inflection drops in the middle of the sentence and Khan is only able to catch the last few words. "…cannot afford to fall behind. Not after today."

"Today was an isolated incident." Khan can hear Balanchine's heels clicking on the floor as she paces.

"I do not believe it was," Dr. Singh contradicts her. "Earlier, Khan postulated that Baikal ordered Taiga to kill, but I think that the continued attempts on the part of the government to enhance her intelligence drove her insane. Every other country that fields champions has adopted that strategy. This will happen again, and we need to be ready."

"It's ridiculous," Balanchine says. "First of all, she is too old."

She? There are no female trainees in the pipeline. Chalice was the last; although Singh advocated for more females, Balanchine ignored his advice and proceeded to train only men. Khan edges closer to the door.

"The course of enhancements I have designed will not damage her," Dr. Singh says. The note of pride in his voice is unmistakable, and with it comes a sting of rebuke; Khan knows that Balanchine has killed more trainees during the enhancement stage than any other scientist. "You must admit, Antonia, that the base material is very strong."

"It is," Balanchine says reluctantly, "but even if she does survive, there is no way she will be ready in time."

"She will be ready, I assure you," Dr. Singh says. "If you have no other objections, Antonia, then I must -"

"I certainly do have more objections," Balanchine snaps. "You know who your subject is, don't you? When Nadezhda finds out what you've done, she'll tear you to shreds."

"She will not find out," Dr. Singh says. "And if she does, it will be too late. But I do not believe she will discover us. She is concerned at the moment with…other matters."

"Such as the funeral arrangements for her only daughter," Balanchine says. "That was inventive, Ravi."

"Thank you," Dr. Singh responds. Khan can hear the coldness in his tone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Antonia, I have to meet with the team concerning my injured champion."

Khan hears them moving toward the door and he bolts, disappearing around the corner and then walking calmly back toward the doctors as they emerge from the office.

Dr. Singh does not look surprised to see him. "Khan, what is it?"

"I would like to speak to you, Dr. Singh," Khan says, forcing every iota of respect he can muster into the words. There can be no mistakes today. He glances at Balanchine. "Alone."

"All right," Dr. Singh says, ushering Khan into the office. "Antonia, later." He closes the door. "Make it quick, Khan. I have a meeting to attend."

"Do you have any news on Chalice's condition?" Khan says. This question is crucial; he will have to formulate his argument entirely around the answer.

Dr. Singh sighs. "Her doctors tell me that the damage to her spinal cord was severe. She may walk again, but she will never fight. What is it, Khan? I am sure you didn't come here to speak simply about Chalice's condition."

"I want to know what is going to happen to her."

Dr. Singh watches him with dark eyes. There is no cruelty in his expression, but there is no kindness, either. "You know what the directors will recommend. You are old enough to remember Liberty."

_Say hello to Liberty when you see her in hell, would you? _That was what Taiga had said, and Khan remembers all too well what happened to Liberty. The first American champion killed Taiga's older sister, back in the days when the arena bouts were fought to the death. And when Liberty was badly injured, the project terminated her and sent out the word that she had died of natural causes. Khan fights down the fear that rises inside him. "I know that, and I would like to suggest an alternative."

"What is it?"

"Let Chalice live," Khan says. "Fix her spine, allow her to walk again, and use her to train the other champions."

"We have professional trainers for that," Dr. Singh says, but he is listening, at least, and Khan knows there is still hope. He keeps talking.

"Those same professional trainers could do nothing for me," Khan says, "and yet here I stand before you, about to enter the arena. I am where I am today because Chalice trained me, and I believe she could do the same for others. Who knows how many trainees could do just as well as I have with her help?"

Dr. Singh nods, conceding Khan's point, but he stays silent. Waiting. Khan keeps talking. "In addition, Chalice could provide insight that no professional trainer, however skillful, could offer; the truth about what it is like in the arena. To lose her at this stage would be to lose a valuable asset."

Dr. Singh goes to his desk and sits down. He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them. "Do you know what Resolution 72-A is, Khan?"

"Of course," Khan says. It is a U.N. resolution relating to the arena bouts; the doubles rule, which would allow each country to field two champions who will fight as a pair in high-stakes battles. "It will never pass the General Assembly."

"It is expected to pass by next year," Dr. Singh says, and Khan blinks, surprised. "Russia has thrown its weight behind the resolution, knowing it will put us at a disadvantage, and they have managed to secure the Contras' cooperation by offering them another champion. The Far Eastern countries will support it because they have no reason not to. They have the votes to push it through, Khan, meaning that, starting next year, we must field two champions instead of one."

Khan wants desperately to get back to the issue at hand, but he plays along, knowing that to disrespect the doctor at this stage would be fatal. "So Midway will be advanced as well?"

"No," Dr. Singh says. "Midway will serve as your second position. An entirely new champion will be created to serve as your partner in the doubles fights. The process has already begun; her memories are being erased as we speak and the enhancements will begin tomorrow."

"And you expect to have a new champion ready to fight in a year?" Khan says.

"With Chalice training her, it is possible," Dr. Singh says, and Khan breathes a sigh of relief. Chalice will be spared after all. "We will have to work quickly."

"But why not Midway?" Khan persists. The project is nothing if not efficient, and creating a new champion from scratch is as wasteful as it gets.

"Because to survive in the doubles fights, under the rules Russia will set, you need a partner who complements you, who is strong where you are weak."

"I am not weak," Khan snaps.

"You are not perfect, either," Dr. Singh says, unruffled. "As I was saying, you and your partner must be a team, and you must understand that neither of you are expendable. You would let Midway die in a second. And that is why we are creating a new champion."

He stands up and walks to the door, holding it open, a clear dismissal. "Go, Khan. I will send for you when Chalice is out of surgery."

* * *

Khan is presented to the world in a simple ceremony that very night. He is flown to Washington, D.C. in a private plane belonging to some minor dignitary, and once there, he's stashed in a small, carpeted room in the White House to wait. He's not sure what he's waiting for, but then he turns on the small TV and understands; the Russians are presenting their new champion, and the government wants to make sure that the coverage does not overlap.

Russia's new fighter is not Alexei. It is a slim, blonde woman named Viktoria, who stares into the cameras in terror. Khan is only half sure it's an act. Russia was planning to reveal Alexei first, but with Taiga's death, they had to change plans to avoid looking weak. For his part, Khan thinks that Russia spends too much time trying not to look weak and too little time actually becoming strong. He preoccupies himself with watching Viktoria, cataloguing her mannerisms, knowing that he will eventually face her in the arena.

After Russia's broadcast, the news networks move to the story that always comes out after a champion's injury; the ethics of the arena fights. Khan snorts. Ethics. Of course kidnapping children, brainwashing them, and training them to fight each other is wrong, but is the alternative truly any better? The arena fights were created to prevent a world war with an unimaginable loss of life, and they do their job well. The news networks should think of that.

But no, they're all crowded around someone's house, waiting for them to emerge so they can be questioned. The camera focuses on one reporter. "We're here outside the house of Dr. Nadezhda Peres, the woman who pioneered gene extraction. Dr. Peres has since disavowed her research and condemned both the eugenics movement the practice of champion creation."

Nadezhda. It's a strange name, and it takes Khan less than a second to figure out where he's heard it before; in the conversation between Drs. Singh and Balanchine. _When she finds out what you've done, she'll tear you to shreds_, Balanchine had said of this Nadezhda. What did Dr. Singh do that would infuriate this woman so much, this woman who's hiding out in her house to avoid the reporters?

The reporter touches her earpiece, then looks into the camera again. "We've just received word that Dr. Peres's daughter was killed in a car accident this afternoon."

Khan turns of the television in disgust. As he stares at the dark screen, something occurs to him, and all the pieces come together in a flash. Dr. Singh hasn't taken just anyone to create Khan's partner; he's taken the daughter of the woman whose research gave birth to the eugenics movement. Khan can't muster any enthusiasm or interest in his new partner, not today, but he feels a hollow sort of sadness for both of them, the doctor and her daughter. Neither of them asked for Dr. Singh's meddling in their lives.

An aide pokes his head into the room. "Khan? It's time."

Khan stands, stretches his limbs, and follows the man through hallways into the Oval Office, where the President and a cadre of advisors wait. Khan is at least five inches taller than the leader of the free world, and as he shakes the man's hand, he can't help but think how frail the man is. How weak. How unsuited to command people like Khan.

"This is a sad occasion for the United States," the President says with Khan standing beside him. "Our greatest champion, Chalice, has been gravely injured, and we are as yet unsure if she will survive. We thank her for her service to her country."

The President bows his head, and all the others do so as well. Khan looks downward, thinking about Chalice, wondering when he'll be allowed in to see her. Maybe by the time he gets back, she'll be out of surgery, and he can talk to her at last. He wonders if they've told her about their bizarre plan. Then he chides himself. He should not be calling their plan bizarre; it's that very plan that is saving Chalice's life.

"It is at times like these, days like these, when we must look forward," the President says. He puts up a hand and claps Khan on the shoulder. "For this reason, I am proud to introduce to you, America, your newest champion; Khan!"

Khan steps forward and listens to the clapping and cheers. He feels the flashing lights of the camera on his face. He does not smile - a true champion remains aloof - but he inclines his head, accepting the accolades. But his mind is back in the compound, where Chalice sleeps; where, somewhere in the deeps of the facility, Nadezhda Peres' daughter is having her memory wiped clean; where Dr. Singh reaches for the stars and Dr. Balanchine plots to win. Khan had always imagined this moment as being happy, but he isn't happy, only determined. Chalice has kept him alive long enough. Now, it is his turn to return the favor.

Once the cameras and reporters are shooed away, he steps out of the light and turns to the aide who brought him here. "I'm going back to the compound. There's someone I need to see."

* * *

On his way up to the hospital, Khan collides with Dr. Singh. "Is Chalice all right? May I speak to her?"

"She's awake," Dr. Singh says. "I informed her of her new position and responsibilities, and also briefed her on the condition of both of her protégés. She's quite proud of you, Khan."

"Can I see her?"

Dr. Singh waves a hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, go up and see her."

He's barely finished the sentence before Khan bolts past him up the stairs.

Chalice is lying bed in the middle of the hospital, monitors hooked up to her chest, her eyes half-closed. Her dark skin has a gray cast. As Khan moves toward her, he sees that the far end of the infirmary is curtained off, but from inside the area he can hear the beeping of a heart monitor, out of rhythm with the one attached to Chalice. He ignores the sound, pulls a chair up beside Chalice's bed, and waits.

She smiles a little. "So, how's the newest champion in the world?"

"I am fine," Khan says earnestly. It is good to see Chalice alive and safe. "How are you feeling, Chalice? Are you all right?"

"They say I'm going to walk again," she says, and a small, sad smile crosses her face. Her voice turns bitter. "I'll never fight, but I'm going to walk again. Aren't I lucky?"

Khan isn't sure what to say. He's never been in a situation like this before. He hesitates, then says, "Better your profession than your life."

Chalice looks at him, and he worries that he's hurt her feelings; then she laughs like her old self and he knows she's all right. "Oh, who am I kidding? It's you we've got to worry about now. You…and her."

She jerks a thumb at the curtained-off area. "Singh's designed some strange enhancements for this one."

"Like what?" Khan says, his interest piqued at last. The exact genetic enhancements for each trainee are supposed to be secret, but everyone finds out anyway. What does Singh have in mind for his new champion, Khan's battle partner?

"They're leaving her intelligence where it is," Chalice says, "but they're boosting her immune system into the stratosphere. Hearing and eyesight as well. The regular strength enhancements, extra speed boosts, and they're adjusting her dexterity. They think it'll help with the weapons training."

"I wasn't aware that they could identify dexterity," Khan says. A thought occurs to him and he smiles. "Maybe if they had known it when Midway was in training, he'd be able to hold onto his trident."

Chalice laughs again. Khan can't describe how good it is to see her alive, after the terror of the fight and the hours of uncertainty. "Poor Midway. He came up to see me, you know, all excited that he'd been moved to second position."

"He doesn't know any better," Khan mutters. Balanchine is of the belief that a champion doesn't need to be a genius to win. Khan thinks that while you may not need to be a genius, having above-average intelligence might help. Midway is good, yes, but Khan is better, has always been better, and no outrage on the part of Balanchine will change that. "Have you seen Balanchine? How is she taking it?"

Chalice snorts. "How do you think she's taking it? She's mad as a half-drowned cat and not likely to get better anytime soon. Midway's promotion was going to be her big break and now she's stuck behind two of Singh's champions again. Watch out for her, Khan. She's going to be out to get you, and she'll be after the new champion as well."

"The new girl makes an easier target, I think," Khan says. He's not unduly worried about Balanchine's manipulations. "You didn't tell me about the rest of the enhancements."

Chalice glances at the curtained-off area, a little frown creasing her lips. "That's it, actually."

"Really?" Khan frowns. Usually, trainees' emotional centers are adjusted for less logic and more instinct, more savagery and less compassion. "Everyone else's is."

"No, actually, not everybody," Chalice says. "Not me, and not you. Singh doesn't believe in emotional adjustment; he thinks it creates psychopaths, and the crazies that keep coming out of Russia don't exactly disprove it. They never messed with your emotions - they only let you think they did. It had pretty much the same effect."

"But why?" Khan says. "The Russian champions are successful. No one can argue that."

Chalice sighs. "Dr. Singh is looking at the long game. The arena fights aren't a perfect fix. At some point, there will be war, and once that happens, Balanchine's killing machines won't be such a hot commodity. The government will need commanders, leaders, people who can make others follow them. That's why they need me, and you, and now her. Anyway, he gave specific orders that they were to leave her emotions alone."

She yawns, lifts one hand to rub her eyes, and Khan realizes that he should leave her be. "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"You will if the Russians don't challenge you right away," Chalice says. "Rumor is, Baikal and Taiga had a thing going. He might come after you."

"Let him try," Khan says. He gets up and replaces the chair, bidding Chalice good night before leaving the hospital and heading back to his own room. He doubts the Russians will challenge him. Their grievance is with Chalice, and by his measure, she's paid for what she did in full.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to IWillNeverStopFangirling, Kittythekatty, ChiChi-O, and Anla'shok for reviewing. Reviews are welcome.

* * *

_spoonful of dissent, orchestra of need_

As it turns out, Chalice is right. They receive the challenge from the Russians the next morning, on a trumped-up allegation of war crimes. He will be facing Baikal, the Russian champion whose experience in the arena is topped only by Chalice's. Baikal, who loved Taiga and will be motivated by revenge. Baikal, who has lost only four fights in the last year, all of them against Chalice. And the fight is in three days.

"Tough draw," comments Midway as Khan turns the declaration over in his hands.

"You'd give anything to draw Baikal as your first fight and you know it," says Antietam, another one of Balanchine's trainees, punching Midway in the shoulder. That punch would have broken an ordinary man's clavicle; but Midway just laughs and punches him back with the same arm.

Khan wishes they would leave and let him eat his breakfast in peace, but as soon as he sat down, several of Balanchine's trainees got up from their respective seats and surrounded him. The courier who delivered the Russian challenge did so to an audience, and Khan knows that by lunchtime, the news will have reached every trainee in the facility.

"What do you think you're going to do?" Midway says to him. "What's your strategy?"

"My strategy is to not die," Khan mutters, hoping to end the conversation quickly. "Anything else would be ridiculous."

Midway's jaw drops. "You're not going to try to win?"

"This is a challenge, not an actual fight."

"But it'll count in your rankings," Antietam says. "You'll be below Azrael and Mayari!"

"Not for long."

"You can't not try to win," declares Midway with all the authority of someone who has no idea what he's talking about. "It's never been done."

It has, actually. Khan remembers dimly the time, not long after she rescued him from the maze, when Chalice intentionally lost a fight. It had been an important bout, one of the battles against the European Union before they became allies, and he remembers hearing raised voices throughout the compound. The next day, ten trainees his age had disappeared, but he hadn't been one of them. Since then, he's thought that Chalice maybe had thrown the fight in a gamble to keep him alive, and he hopes it isn't true. He already owes her for so much; he doesn't want to owe her anything more.

"Let me point out that it's not going to look like I am trying to lose," Khan says irritably. Ordinarily he ignores Balanchine's trainees, but today they are making it impossible. "Baikal has more experience than any other champion in the field, and even without that, he is a formidable fighter. I have no experience in the arena whatsoever. Even if I were to fight my hardest, I would still lose. I'm simply attempting to minimize the damage I incur while losing."

Midway is starting to look alarmed. Khan isn't sure whether it's the idea of a champion losing on purpose or the idea of two champions dying in one week. "You think he's gonna kill you?"

Khan has tried to put Dr. Singh's theory about Taiga's insanity out of his mind, but it hasn't worked, and he can't help thinking that Baikal has undergone many more modifications than Taiga did. "Why so worried, Midway? I thought you wanted to go into the arena."

"Yeah, I do," Midway says, in what Khan thinks is a calculated show of humility, "but not _yet_."

"These things rarely happen when we would like them to." At the new voice they all look up, and Khan sees Chalice making her slow but steady way toward them, aided by a silver walker. He's glad to see that all of Balanchine's trainees stand up respectfully as she approaches, and he stands as well. She rolls her eyes. "Sit down, all of you. I'm a retired champion, not the President."

"Hey, speaking of the President, what was he like?" Antietam says eagerly to Khan.

"Short," says Khan, the first thing that pops into his head, and Balanchine's trainees snicker.

Chalice is not amused. "Forget him. We need to talk about the challenge."

"Yeah, tell him, Chalice," Midway interjects. "Tough guy here -" he punches Khan on the arm "- wants to throw the fight."

"Don't touch me," Khan says, and he slams his boot down on Midway's instep. Midway, like all the other trainees, has been hit so many times that he's inured to pain, and he doesn't flinch.

"That's exactly what you should do," Chalice tells Khan, to the surprise of the others. "You either have to throw the fight or you have to get close enough to Baikal to knock him out. Russia will go ballistic if we kill another one of their champions, so unfortunately, you have to leave him alive. It's a tough one."

"So what should I do?"

"If it were under different circumstances, I'd say throw it," Chalice muses, "but Baikal is furious about what happened to Taiga. If you back off from him, he might beat you to death. No, you'll have to take him down."

Khan tries to keep his face neutral, but something must show through, because Midway points at him with a fork and says, "All you have to do is knock the dumb bastard out. It's not that hard."

"You try it," Chalice comments mildly. "I think you'll find that it is."

As happy as Khan is to see Chalice up and about, he's starting to wish that she sat down with them. He's already beginning to feel the faintest twinge of nerves over this fight, and her dark warnings about Baikal's fighting prowess aren't helping in the slightest. "Is there something you need, Chalice?"

She notices the coldness in his tone, he can tell, but she doesn't react. "We're going to train. Meet me in the practice rooms at 1300 hours. You, too, Midway."

"Me?" Midway says, and Khan rolls his eyes. Yes, Midway is less intelligent than he, but not _that _much less.

"Yeah. Khan needs a practice partner and I won't be any use. Get there early. 1220 should do." Midway frowns, but Chalice is his superior in every way and he can't refuse. Chalice's wristband beeps and she glances down. "I've got to go. They want me back up in the infirmary. Walk with me, will you, Khan?"

She waits until they're out of the mess hall before she tells him the rest of the bad news. "The Summit in New York is tomorrow, and the directors need you to go in my place."

"No," Khan says reflexively, and Chalice rolls her eyes. He raises his voice. "I am not some exotic animal to be paraded around and gawked at! Find someone else."

"If you don't go," Chalice says, calm as ever in the face of his fury, "we'll be the only country without a champion in attendance. Do you have any idea how bad that will make us look?"

Khan snarls under his breath and keeps walking, speeding up to leave Chalice, her walker, and her unwelcome news behind.. The Summit is an event held every year, where rich and famous people from every country gather, allegedly to talk about peace but really to continue to wage war. The champions are always there, battle-hardened warriors stuffed into ridiculous suits and dresses, and they spend most of their time standing still while various dignitaries take photos with them. Khan has been to the Summit once before, in disguise as the son of some important person, and he despised it. He's not keen on the idea of going back again, this time as one of the main attractions.

"Baikal will be there," he says after Chalice catches up to him, the wheels of her walker squeaking on the tile floor. "That's why you aren't going."

She nods. "It won't be that bad, Khan. You haven't done anything yet to distinguish yourself. Everyone will be more interested in Baikal and Wyvern."

Baikal. Wyvern, the European Union's fighter, who spends most of his time in territorial disputes with the champions from the Far East. Mayari. Azrael. However many champions the Far East decides to send. And Khan, new, untested, and in over his head.

"The fight is the next day," he reminds Chalice.

"You'll be flown from New York to Rio de Janeiro," she says. "I'm sorry, Khan. I know it's less than ideal."

Less than ideal. What a strange way to put it. Khan had been counting on having three days to prepare for his fight, and now, instead of three days, he has one. "Will you be in Rio?"

"I'll come watch. I promise," Chalice says.

They're at the hospital. Khan holds open the door so Chalice can negotiate it more easily with her walker. "Practice rooms at 1300," Chalice reminds him as she goes inside.

Khan nods. Behind Chalice, through the groups of white-coated technicians milling around, he can see the sole occupied bed. But before he can get a good look at the face of the patient, Chalice closes the door and he's left alone in the hallway.

* * *

Khan fills the hours before 1300 by going to the tech lab and researching all the conflicts, religious wars, and political mistakes that have occurred between the countries attending the Summit. It's a lot of history to read simply for the sake of not embarrassing the program. By the time he staggers out of the room at 1250, his head is swimming with treaties, battles, assassinations, and coronations.

Khan knows there won't be any risk of offending the Far Eastern champions. None of them speak English - or "Standard", as a new resolution in the U.N. has decided to call it - and he can't speak any of the myriad languages used in the East. Wyvern is an ally. Mayari is not, and she can speak English perfectly well. He'll have to be careful around her. He speaks Russian well enough to converse with Baikal or Viktoria, both of whom will be attending, but after Chalice's fight he doesn't think it wise to go near either of them. No, the real question is how to deal with Azrael.

The Sinai Confederacy has taken a neutral stance, allying themselves with no one and antagonizing no one too badly. They've picked a few nuisance fights with the U.S. and the European Union since Azrael's debut, but nothing serious. Nothing that would cause the type of rivalry that exists between the U.S. and Russia, or the U.S. and the Contras, or the European Union and the Far East. During his reading, Khan unearthed a bloody war between the countries that now make up the Sinai Confederacy and the European Union, but it occurred centuries ago. Surely hatred can't last that long.

Khan nearly collides with a technician and resolves to stay more alert. He can always ask Chalice about Azrael.

By the time he changes into battle gear and reaches the practice rooms, Midway and Chalice are waiting for him. "You're late," Midway says, arms crossed.

"I wasn't aware you had somewhere else to be," Khan says, matching Midway glare for glare. Chalice must have given the other man instructions; Midway is never this confrontational toward him.

"Do you think Baikal will have somewhere else to be during your fight?" Chalice says. When Khan turns to look at her, Midway grabs him in a bear hug from behind.

In hindsight, Khan thinks he should have suspected this. Why else would Chalice have asked Midway to arrive early? Ignoring the growing pressure on his ribs, he snakes out a foot, hooks it around Midway's ankle, and throws his weight back, overbalancing the other man and sending them both to the floor.

"One," Chalice says, and Midway locks Khan into a chokehold. Khan reaches up, ready to gouge his fingers into Midway's eyes until he lets go, but then Midway changes his grip and Khan freezes. With one slight twist of his arm, Midway could break Khan's neck, and there is nothing Khan can do about it.

"This," says Chalice as Khan fights for breath, "is exactly where you don't want to be in a fight with Baikal. He's used this one on every champion out there, and they all keep falling for it. Let him up, Midway."

Midway lets go of Khan and gets up, offering him a hand. Khan ignores it and climbs to his feet, looking to Chalice. "What happened there?"

"You tell me," Chalice says. "What was your mistake?"

Even as the question leaves her lips Khan knows the answer. "I went for the easy escape."

"Exactly," Chalice says. "I used the foot escape on Baikal just once, but then it caught on, and Baikal's biggest advantage - his strength - was suddenly useless. So he developed a new strategy. He tempts people into the foot escape by bear-hugging them and then he puts them in that hold and forces them to surrender. First rule of fighting, Khan; you never want Baikal to get behind you."

"I don't want him to get in front of me, either," Khan points out, and Midway snickers.

Chalice ignores it. "What's another escape you can use to get out of the bear hug?"

"You just told me not to get stuck in a bear hug."

"You're going to get stuck in a bear hug. Once you have a few more fights under your belt, you won't, but this time he's going to get you. So how are you getting out?"

"There's the drop," Midway starts hesitantly, but Chalice cuts across him.

"That's amateur hour," she says. "Khan, what do you think?"

Khan considers it. "If I could get an arm free, I would be able to get out."

"Do everything you can to get an arm free, then, but don't be surprised if it doesn't work," Chalice says. "Assume he gets you, and you can't use the foot escape or the drop."

"I'll have to throw him."

"Exactly," Chalice says. "Midway, grab him again. Let's practice."

It goes on like this for four hours. As soon as Khan masters the escapes from a bear-hug, Chalice moves on, ordering Midway to put him in every arm-lock and leg hold Baikal has ever used in a fight until he can escape from all of them. Then they have actual practice fights, where Midway uses Baikal's moves and Khan has to escape from them. Midway blocks one of Khan's attacks a second too slow and Khan lands a strike on his shoulder, snapping his collarbone. He follows it up by kicking Midway hard in the ribs, again and again, until the other man collapses to the mats.

"If I'd known I was going to be a punching bag," Midway groans from the floor, "I never would have agreed to this."

Midway's not the only one who's been damaged. Khan has a bloody nose and the makings of a spectacular black eye. Chalice's lips move as she silently counts down from twenty. "That's it. That would be the end of it. But Baikal's not just going to lie there. He won't quit until you make him quit. Your fight's not over until you've got an unconscious Russian on the ground in front of you."

"I understand," Khan says. He glances down at Midway, considering his options, and finally extends a hand. Midway takes it and Khan pulls him to his feet. "Thank you for your help today."

Midway shrugs, then winces. "Ah, no problem. Just make sure you win. I'd hate to think I got all beaten up for nothing."

Chalice's wristband beeps. "I'm going up to the hospital. You'd better come with me, Midway."

"I'm fine," Midway says.

"Have you ever had to have a bone rebroken because it set badly?" Chalice asks pointedly, and Midway blanches. "That's what I thought. Khan, go get cleaned up. I'll see you at dinner."

Khan heads back to his room. He showers, washes the blood from his face, and puts on a clean uniform. He has slept perhaps two hours out of the last forty-eight, and although he feels awful, he's still able to function. It's bizarre, truthfully, that he was created to be this way. Champions need to function in short, violent bursts, not over long periods of time. He remembers what Chalice said, about what will happen after the arena fights are over, and he dismisses it. The arena fights will never end. They work too well to be gotten rid of.

"You look terrible," Chalice tells him when he meets her in the mess hall.

"So do you," he responds. Chalice does not have a black eye, but she looks exhausted, and there is still a gray cast to her skin. "How is Midway?"

"Good," Chalice says. "Watch out for him, Khan. He's better at this than you might expect."

"I know. And the new champion?"

Chalice smirks at him. "Why so interested?"

Khan isn't sure what she's implying, but it irks him. "I assure you, my interest is purely professional. I am, after all, expected to trust this person with my life."

Chalice sighs. "Some idiot in the medical department forgot to adjust the sedative dose and she woke up. That's why they kept calling me in - she was asking them questions they couldn't answer. She's remarkably lucid, actually. More so than I was when I was going through this."

"Have they chosen a name for her yet?"

"I don't think so," Chalice says. "It'll be interesting to see what Singh comes up with this time." A smile comes over her face. "Speaking of Dr. Singh, I'm going to try and get his permission to bring someone with me to Rio."

This piques Khan's interest. "Who?"  
"You'll see." She pokes at her food with her fork and looks up at him. She looks worried. "Khan, are you scared about your fight?"

He opens his mouth to answer, and she cuts him off. "And I don't want to hear the champion answer. I want the real answer. Are you scared?"

For a moment Khan just stares at her, because this is not the kind of thing that they, or anyone else in the compound, speak of. Fear does not exist here, because if fear exists, then so does failure. In a way, Chalice taught him that when they first met in the maze; she never mentioned his tears, never challenged his assertion that he wasn't lost. He didn't ask her if she was scared before she flew out to London for her fight with Taiga, but it has never been his place to ask that. She has always been one who takes care of him.

That, out of everything, is what helps him answer. "Yes."

Chalice smiles. "Good. The best fighters always are."

Her wristband beeps again and she sighs. "Looks like our new friend is awake." She stands up and grips her walker. "I'll see you in Rio, all right? _After _you win."

They leave the mess hall headed in opposite directions, and it's only when Khan is back in his room that he realizes that he never asked Chalice about Azrael.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to IWillNeverStopFangirling, Anla'shok, Impish Wisdoms, and NightSky for reviewing.

* * *

_it's just enough to please this colony_

The first thing Khan is aware of as he steps out of the limousine is brightness, sudden flashes of it as cameras all along the walkway ahead of him go off. It surprises him for a second, blinds him, but then his eyes adjust and he takes his first steps down the red carpet at the Summit. There are people with TV cameras and microphones shouting his name, but there's another sound, louder and more rhythmic, that thrums beneath the rest of the noise.

He identifies it at last and turns away from the Summit building, looking across the street at the source of the sound. Protestors, hundreds of them, held back by a police line, waving signs and chanting something that even he cannot make out over the background noise. As one limousine comes down the street, an egg thrown by a protestor splatters on the windshield. The person who tossed it is immediately handcuffed by the police.

One of the government handlers tugs on Khan's arm. "We're holding up the line."

Khan easily pulls his arm free and starts down the carpet at his own pace, eager to get away from both the chanting protestors and the shouting press as fast as possible. This is not his place. This is not why he became a champion. It's a relief to get to the steps. He dodges through groups of other guests and makes it through the doors. He doesn't have an invitation, but he doesn't need one. The man at the door takes one look at him and steps aside.

"Well, that was embarrassing."

Khan turns toward the sound of Balanchine's voice. He'd forgotten that she's the one who represents the program at these events, and since she is the only person here he knows, he decides that he should at least try to be polite. "Excuse me, Dr. Balanchine?"

"Embarrassing," she repeats. She's wearing a dark green dress and her blonde hair is twisted up. Khan supposes she's attractive, based on the looks she's getting from passing guests, but he knows too much about her to find her so. "The United States champion running away from the press like a frightened child."

Her words sting more than Khan expected them to. "I did not run."

Balanchine laughs. "There are Olympic athletes who run more slowly." She squints at the lapel of his suit and frowns. "Oh, God."

"What?" Khan looks down, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, but Balanchine beckons over an attendant.

"Give me your pin," she demands, and the attendant removes the small American flag he's wearing on his lapel. Balanchine holds the pin out to Khan. "Put this on."

"Why? Everyone already knows who I am."

Balanchine hisses. "It's the principle of the thing, as you well know, Khan. Whatever else he does, Ravi does not create stupid champions. Now put on the pin."

Reluctantly, Khan takes the pin and attaches it to his suit, thinking how ridiculous it is. He glances around at the gathering and realizes that they're still standing in the atrium. He moves further into the venue. This year, the Summit is being held at the Museum of Natural History. There's a certain irony to that, Khan realizes, as he passes the enormous wired-together skeleton of a tyrannosaurus. So many eons of evolution, and in a few short years science has changed the picture completely.

A space has been cleared on the floor, lit by spotlights from above, and there Khan sees the famous faces from programs worldwide. There, with his arm draped around a brown-haired woman's neck, is Wyvern, Europe's champion. A few Far Eastern champions, their number tattoos visible on their shaved heads, congregate by a table laden with food, and Khan sees still more of them standing near by a display of velociraptors. The Far East has most of the world's population; it makes sense that they would have the most champions, but still, it unnerves Khan to see so many.

"He's here." It starts with a whisper. There's a ripple effect in the crowd, starting near the door. Someone enormous, someone intimidating is moving through the hall, and the other guests are parting around them. Khan sees a flash of prematurely silver hair, close-cropped in a soldier's cut, and he instinctively steps back, out of the projected path of the group. The Russian delegation has arrived.

Khan has never seen Baikal up close. The Russian champion is enormous, taller than Khan by three inches or more and broad-shouldered. While most male champions have cultivated a lean, strong appearance, Baikal has immense muscles and even larger hands. An odd thought comes to Khan, out of nowhere; once, during a fight with a Far Eastern champion, Baikal had crushed his opponent's skull with his bare hands. Everything about him is designed to terrify.

As Baikal comes closer, Khan's sharp eyes pick out a thin scar on the other champion's neck, poking out above the collar of his shirt. Baikal has many scars, but that particular mark was inflicted by Chalice at the end of a fight she had already won. "I did it to scare him," he remembers Chalice telling him. "To let him know he's not nearly as powerful as he thinks he is."

If Chalice could beat this mountain of a man, Khan can, too. With that thought in mind, he steps brazenly into the path of the Russian delegation and stares Baikal down. The other champion's dark eyes flicker across Khan's face, but show no recognition, and Baikal alters his path, brushing by. Viktoria, Taiga's replacement, skitters along in Baikal's wake. She stares unabashedly at Khan, but then she collides with one of her handlers and faces front, looking as if she'd like nothing more than to sink into the ground and not resurface.

"That was intelligent," Dr. Balanchine comments from somewhere behind him.

Khan shrugs and starts to walk away, intending to visit the food tables, but halfway there, a red-haired woman tottering on enormous high heels accosts him.

"Dance with me," she says, gripping his arm.

Khan wonders if he can work his arm free without overbalancing her completely, and decides it's not possible. "Please let go."

"Oh, go on, dance with her," Balanchine says. Khan didn't realize that she'd followed him. In a lower voice, she adds, "She's one of the biggest supporters of the program. She's given us millions. Go."

"But I don't -" Khan starts, but the red-haired woman laughs and lurches toward the dance floor, using him as a support, and he never gets to explain to Balanchine that he doesn't know how to dance.

Three and a half minutes later - he counted every second - Khan storms off the dance floor, fuming. He doesn't care if the next person who asks him to dance invented the wheel. He saw several Far Eastern champions laughing at him as he stepped all over his partner's feet, and who knows how many others saw? Khan is a warrior, not a member of high society, and despite what Chalice said, he's fairly sure that he's just embarrassed the United States with his dancing far more than he ever could with his absence from the Summit.

He's skulking by the food table, systematically devouring a tray of crab puffs, when Viktoria comes up to him. "Khan, isn't it?" she says in Russian.

Khan is about to respond in Russian as well when he realizes that he could end up facing Viktoria in the arena very soon. She is an enemy. So he looks at her with what he hopes is a puzzled expression and says, in English, "I don't speak Russian."

Viktoria flushes. "I'm sorry," she says in accented English. "Your name is Khan, isn't it?"

"Yes," Khan says. "Did Baikal send you here to find out about me?"

"Yes," says Viktoria.

"Then I'm afraid our conversation is at an end," Khan says, and he goes back to the crab puffs.

"You'd be wise to speak to me," Viktoria insists. "Baikal is furious. He is out to kill you."

Chalice was right, then. The confirmation of it doesn't frighten Khan as much as he thought it would. "Does the Russian Federation truly wish to lose two champions in a week? Tell Baikal that if he wishes to kill me, he had better hope that his second position is better equipped for the arena than you are."

Fury descends over Viktoria's features, and Khan is surprised at how it changes her. "You know little about me, Khan. When I face you in the arena, you will wish your government had never stolen you from your parents."

She walks off, and Khan is left with the sense that he's mishandled the situation. It only grows stronger when a voice from the shadows behind him says, "Russia's program is particularly hard on its female trainees. You should have been more cautious."

Khan turns toward the speaker. "Azrael, isn't it?"

The sole champion from the Sinai Confederacy steps forward. "Yes. When you see Chalice again, Khan, please give my condolences on her injury. Unless she has already been terminated?"

"She has not been terminated," Khan says. He feels compelled to add, "And she will not be."

Azrael looks surprised, then pleased. "Good. She was a powerful champion and a skilled diplomat, and it would be a pity for your country to lose her so prematurely." He plucks the last crab puff off the tray and eats it. "You, on the other hand, seem determined to antagonize the Russians even further. Are you trying to get yourself maimed?"

Khan blinks, surprised, but he makes an effort to recover his dignity. "Do you speak from experience?"

"Of course," Azrael says. "You are not foolish, Khan. You must know that my country deals more closely with the Russian Federation than yours ever has. Viktoria does not look like much, but she would not have risen to her current position without deadly skill. And as I see it, you already have enough enemies among the Russian champions."

Khan glances over at the Russians, who are talking to the delegation from the Far East. "I suppose an apology would not go over well?"

Azrael laughs. "You can't help Baikal hating you. But you can repair things with Viktoria. There's nothing she hates more than arrogance, specifically American arrogance. If you win your fight tomorrow, show humility, and you will gain some of her respect. You will sorely need it."

"You think?" Khan says. He's surprised that Azrael is conversing with him, and even more surprised that the other champion is giving him advice. What's stranger is that it's _good _advice, relevant advice, from a champion who has yet to win a fight.

"I know," Azrael says. "As skilled as you are, you won't survive if both of Russia's champions are out for your blood."

Someone beckons to the Sinai champion from across the room. "It was interesting to meet you, Khan. I will be going now."

Khan turns Azrael's advice over in his mind, and by the time he comes up with an appropriate response, Azrael is already walking away. "Just a moment," he calls, and Azrael turns back to him. "You are slated to fight Baikal next week."

Azrael nods. "What of it?"

"If he puts you in a bear hug, don't use the foot escape," Khan says. Azrael studies him, head tilted sideways.

"And this information comes…?"

"From Chalice."

Azrael nods. "Thank you. Good luck tomorrow."

He walks away, leaving Khan with an empty tray and several disturbing thoughts crowding his mind. Azrael is, of course, correct; the majority of Khan's fights will be with Russia, and if both Viktoria and Baikal are attempting to kill him, he will not last long. He resolves to be more polite the next time he encounters an enemy champion. It didn't occur to him that two people who are adversaries in the arena must be civil to each other outside of it.

The more troubling issue, of course, is Azrael. The Sinai Confederacy is not a declared enemy of the United States, but they have always been aligned with Russia, and cast in that light, Azrael's advice to him is downright bizarre. Why would the Sinai's champion help him when sooner or later, they will face each other in the arena?

A group of Far Eastern champions pass Khan. They don't speak, but they're watching, and so he ignores them. He's slowly beginning to realize that being a champion encompasses far more than simply fighting in the arena; it's diplomacy, and tenuous alliances between champions that last as only as long as necessary. It is a minefield, and he is not sure that he possesses the tact to make it through unscathed.

The party drags on. Khan's fight is scheduled for two o'clock the next day, and he has a ten-hour flight ahead of him. It's time to leave. He goes looking for Balanchine, but people, champions and dignitaries alike, are starting to slip off to dark corners, and it's hard to keep track of anyone. Finally, he sees a corner of Balanchine's green dress disappearing around a corner, and he follows.

"I need to know that you're not going to cut out on us," he hears Balanchine say. He takes a quick peek into the darkened hallway and makes out the face of the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. "This space command resolution -"

"It's called Starfleet," the ambassador says quietly, "and I'm not going to cut out on you, Antonia. But people are getting behind this."

"Not our people," Balanchine says. "The unaffiliated countries. The ones too weak to fight for what they have."

Khan would dispute that. The countries that support Resolution S-171 - known colloquially as Starfleet - are not weak. They're desperately poor, too busy trying to feed themselves to fight for oil and land. If S-171 passes the U.N., it will put a moratorium on the arena fights, and force all member countries to devote their resources to a common cause; the exploration of space. Khan's not sure what to think of it. It's a grand idea, but in the end, that's all it is. It is not viable.

"They believe it will protect them from us," the ambassador says.

"They they are mistaken," Balanchine says. "Starfleet is, of course, an important cause, Ambassador. But it can wait. It must wait. The war -"

"There is no war," the Ambassador says.

"There will be," Balanchine says. "Don't fool yourself. Whether it's the Russians or the Contras or the damned Sinai Confederacy, there will be war. And when it comes, do you want our ordinary soldiers facing off against an army of champions?"

The Ambassador is silent, and Balanchine - correctly, in Khan's opinion - interprets this silence as assent. "Block Resolution S-171, ambassador. Your country will thank you for it."

Khan hears her walking back toward him, but it's too late to duck out of sight, and she sees him. "How long were you there?"

"Long enough."

"Well, then, you ought to thank me," Balanchine says, with an odd, twisted smile. "I just secured your future."

They walk back through the now-silent museum and climb into the waiting limousine. It takes them to the airport. Without a word to him, Balanchine gets on a plane headed back to the compound, and Khan is directed to another plane, this one going to Rio de Janeiro. Other than the pilot and copilot, he is the only one on board, and he sits in a seat in the middle of the plane. A duffel bag containing his battle uniform and weapons sits beside him.

Khan uses a sword when he fights, and oddly enough, he is in the minority. A sword is a ubiquitous weapon, and most champions prefer something distinctive; Chalice and her curved knives, Taiga's bow, Wyvern's flail. Although he can maim and kill well enough with his bare hands, and shoot a gun with ninety percent accuracy, Khan feels most comfortable with his sword. He unzips the bag and looks at it for a second, and as he looks he thinks how small it is, how weak. Baikal uses a spiked mace, capable of crushing bone with a single blow.

_A weapon is only as good as the person who wields it_, he reminds himself. He thinks back to the years he struggled to reach this place; the punishing battles he fought with Balanchine's trainees, Chalice forcing him to run the maze until he could find his way out blindfolded, the tests of intelligence and endurance and finally, the moment when Dr. Singh told him that he would be advanced to second position. He wishes he could be happy on the eve of this moment he's worked his entire life for, but the reality of Chalice's injury, Taiga's death, and his own impending confrontation with Baikal has sapped whatever happiness he once felt at the idea. All that's left is a grim determination to get this done.

Khan looks out the window. They are so high up that he can see the slow curve of the earth, and when he glances up, he can see the stars. He thinks about Resolution S-171, effectively killed by Balanchine, and wonders if it's not possible to have it both ways, for countries to fight each other on Earth but unite to reach further out into the vastness of space. The night sky shines, and as he looks into it, he feels almost overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. If he dies tomorrow, this sky will not care; it will continue on regardless of Khan or Chalice or anyone else.

_Baikal cannot touch this sky, not for all his strength_. _He is not invincible_. It calms Khan, somehow, and he leans back, closing his eyes. For the first time he thinks about what will happen afterward, just a passing thought about the guest Chalice said she would bring, and he stops himself. Tomorrow, he reminds himself sternly. There's only tomorrow. And with that thought in his mind he falls asleep.

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**Please review.**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks to Anla'shok, IWillNeverStopFangirling, Impish Wisdoms, NightSky, Sam Meyer, KillMeHealMe, and WhenTheSaintsGoMarchingIn for reviewing.

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_we who are about to die_

It is warm outside, hot and humid, but inside the room it is freezing cold. Khan can feel the hairs on his arms rising in a futile attempt to regulate his body temperature, but it fails, and eventually he devolves into shivering. The thin fabric of his battle uniform does nothing to keep out the chill. Irritatingly, the anteroom's walls are made entirely of mirrors, and no matter which way he turns, he can see himself; the newest American champion, in his ridiculous white uniform, shivering like a little boy left out in the cold.

Although the anteroom is meant to be soundproof, the roar of the crowds outside is impossible to drown out. Countries that cannot spare the resources needed to create a champion instead profit from the fights by building arenas and hosting them. The arena in Rio de Janeiro is one of the largest in the world, capable of holding seventy thousand spectators, and today, when the fight in question is a grudge match between Russia and the United States, it is packed to capacity. Chalice will be somewhere in the crowd. Khan wonders if she's managed to bring her "mystery guest" along with her.

In an effort to distract himself from the cold, Khan checks his watch. He has less than two minutes before the doors open into the arena, and once the doors open, he will have one minute to establish himself before Baikal is released into arena as well. He busies himself getting ready, belting the sheath containing his sword to his back. He draws the sword to check its position, then rotates the belt so he will not hit himself in the head when he reaches for his weapon. Then there is a minute left and Khan thinks about the moments before the last fight he saw; how worried he was for Chalice, how far away it all seemed.

Then a gong sounds and the door opens and Khan is not thinking anymore. He's just running, bolting out of the anteroom and into blinding light. A blast of cold air hits him, and he cannot understand where all this whiteness is coming from. Then he looks down and realizes that the ground is coated with snow. He nearly collides with a tree trunk, leaps over a stream, and keeps going, heedless of the tracks he's leaving and horrified at where he's ended up. It's a sub-arctic forest. Known in Russia as a taiga.

After perhaps fifteen seconds of running he makes himself slow down and think. He is leaving tracks, but he cannot stop moving, and he has less than thirty seconds to conceal himself. Khan remembers Baikal's habit of climbing something to survey the arena, knowing that this must factor into his choice, and he begins to run again, modifying his stride to long leaps so as to leave few footprints.

A rocky outcropping appears and Khan dives beneath it, hoping it will shield him from Baikal's eyes. He curses his luck. This terrain is ideal for the Russian champion. It will be very difficult for Khan to surprise Baikal and very easy for Baikal to track him. Not to mention the obvious nod to Russia in the arena's design. Khan can't think of a worse arena to draw for his first fight. Then something occurs to Khan. His white uniform - the color that all U.S. champions wear - will allow him to blend in with his surroundings. Baikal will be wearing red.

He grins. _Baikal may be hunting me down, but at least I'll see him coming_.

The screen of Khan's watch flashes, alerting him that his minute has just run out. Baikal has entered the arena. He waits, feeling his pulse race, hearing his heartbeat pound in his ears, all the thousands of ways that this could go wrong drilling through his brain. What if Baikal decides to forsake his ordinary tactics and simply crushes Khan's skull with his mace? What if there are animals here, like there were in the London arena? What if, despite all his training and skill and superiority, he dies?

Khan is beginning to think that he's made a miscalculation when the roar echoes through the arena, so loud that he covers his ears. Perhaps the Russians enhance their champions' voices along with everything else. "Where are you, little rat?"

"Nowhere you can see," Khan mutters, moving to the edge of the outcropping, trying to pinpoint Baikal's location by his voice. "Keep talking, you fool."

"Come out, little rat," Baikal bellows again, and Khan hears a branch snap, entirely too close for comfort. He dives back under the outcropping, only to realize that the creature in the woods is a caribou, and not Baikal at all. "I promise I will make your death quick."

Baikal's strategy makes no sense to Khan. It's all well and good to yell one taunt, but to keep talking and then publicly state your intention of killing another champion is ridiculous, and it gives your opponent far too much time to figure out where you're hiding. Then it occurs to Khan. Baikal does not have a strategy; he is simply being careless. He thinks Khan is so weak, so harmless, that he has no compunctions about making himself known. Baikal is underestimating him, and Khan will make him pay for his mistake.

The caribou is still picking its way through the forest. Khan scoops a rock off the ground and hurls it at the beast, missing on purpose. It lets out a startled snort and takes off, crashing through the trees, lifting flights of snowbirds from the bushes, and most importantly, drawing Baikal's attention. Once the caribou disappears, the forest descends into unnatural quiet, but Khan is grateful; he can hear branches snapping as Baikal lowers himself out of his tree and comes toward the sound.

Khan knows he's taking an awful risk by giving away his position. There is still a good chance that Baikal will be able to overpower him by sheer strength, and he knows that if Chalice were in his position, she would never have done this. But Khan has always been more willing to take risks, and this is not a foolish gamble. He knows this is his only chance to gain the upper hand in a fight that has been against him from the beginning.

Khan draws his sword and slips out from beneath the outcropping. He sees a flash of red moving in the trees perhaps thirty feet away and takes a circuitous path toward it, ducking behind trees whenever the Russian champion checks over his shoulder. Baikal is too preoccupied with scanning the forest to notice Khan, too busy following the tracks Khan left during his panicked run, and now Khan is right behind him. Khan can see the spiked mace dangling from Baikal's hand and knows he must get rid of it.

Baikal mutters something in Russian. "Where are you, little rat?"

A taunt occurs to Khan, but he suppresses it. He moves even closer to Baikal, and just as Baikal sees Khan's shadow on the snow in front of him, Khan brings his sword down and slices through the mace. The spiked end lands in the snow and Baikal is left holding the handle.

Khan expects Baikal to react fast, and the Russian champion does not disappoint; he hurls the now-useless handle of the mace at Khan's face. Khan whips his head sideways, avoiding the brunt of the throw, but the handle glances off his cheek. Khan feels the sting but knows he's gotten lucky. If he'd taken the full force of the strike, it would have fractured his cheekbone. Breathing hard, adrenaline pumping in his veins, Khan faces Baikal.

The Russian champion laughs. He holds out his empty hands. "Now what?"

Unfortunately, it's a good question. Baikal is unarmed and Khan still has his sword, but there is no way for Khan to use the weapon on Baikal without seriously injuring or killing him, and he does not want to do to Baikal what Taiga did to Chalice. Thinking fast, he adjusts his grip on the sword and feints sideways. When Baikal moves to compensate, Khan raises the sword, ready to bring its pommel down on Baikal's temple and knock the other man unconscious.

But he has misjudged Baikal's speed. The Russian champion grabs his wrist, halting the strike, and tightens his grip to the point of pain as Khan tries to struggle free. When Khan refuses to relinquish the sword, Baikal brings up his other hand and slams it into Khan's breastbone, knocking him off his feet. Khan's wrist strains in Baikal's grip as his full weight falls onto it; then, with a horrible crack, it gives, forcing Khan to drop the sword.

Khan stumbles back, fighting to ignore the excruciating pain in his wrist. He has endured broken bones before, but they were clean breaks, and he knows that there is nothing clean about this injury. He expects Baikal to pick up the sword and come after him, and he prepares to run, but Baikal does nothing except kick the sword away into the undergrowth.

"Now," he says, "we are even."

"Why not use the sword?" Khan says, proud of how even his voice is.

"A butcher's weapon," Baikal says dismissively. "No. We will fight man to man, as is the proper way. I will kill you with my bare hands."

Khan tucks his useless arm against his chest and sets his feet. He curls his good hand into a fist and lifts it in a defensive posture. Baikal watches him makes his meager preparations, a smile as cold as ice etched into his face. Then he lunges, arms out to clinch with Khan and begin the fight in earnest.

Khan is trained not to shirk from a fight, but in this case, it's his only option. He twists out of the way as Baikal comes toward him and drives his knee up into Baikal's chest, once, twice, before Baikal gets a grip on his leg and yanks it out from under him. Khan falls hard in the snow. There's stabbing pain in his back, and it takes him a moment to realize what must have caused it; the spiked head of Baikal's mace, lying unnoticed in the snow.

Khan rolls sideways and gets a hand around the mace. There's warmth trickling down his back, definitely blood, and between that and his broken wrist, he is at a disadvantage. He gets to his feet smoothly, perfectly, and lashes out with the head of the mace. Baikal dodges, and Khan follows up with a kick directly into Baikal's projected path. It connects with the other champion's ribs and Khan pulls back before Baikal can grab his leg and dump him into the snow a second time. He attacks with the mace again, scoring a hit on the Russian's shoulder.

Baikal snarls. His enormous fist comes out of nowhere and slams into Khan's cheek, striking the same spot where the handle of the mace hit him earlier. Khan's head spins and he staggers sideways as Baikal hits him again. He can barely hang onto a thought, but he knows that he's about to die, and something in him rebels at the idea. Not ready. He's not ready to die. A plan begins to form in the back of Khan's mind as he ducks, dodges, blocks, does everything he can to avoid another strike to his head. It is a risk, like everything else he's done in this fight. He just has to hope that this one will pay off.

Khan turns his back on Baikal. He counts perhaps two seconds before the Russian champion's massive arms take a crushing grip on his chest, and he manages to pull his injured arm free before Baikal tightens his hold. His good arm is still stuck. Khan closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and throws an elbow with his trapped arm. It hits Baikal in the stomach and his breath hisses out. For a second he loosens his hold, and Khan makes his move.

He shifts sideways, reaches up with his free arm, and locks it around Baikal's head, holding on tight, ignoring the pain in his wrist. Then he throws his hips back, drops to his knees, and drags Baikal over his shoulder. It is not a perfect throw, and it does not resemble any of the techniques Chalice taught him, but it gets him out of the hold, and now Baikal is struggling to regain his feet. Khan has the upper hand, and he is not about to let it go to waste.

He disables Baikal with four strikes; one kick that knocks the other man onto his back, a stomp that breaks his knee, and two measured punches in the face that render him unconscious. The countdown begins as soon as Baikal's eyes close, but Khan does not register it. His opponent is still alive, still dangerous, and he is not about to make the same mistake Chalice did. He grasps the spiked mace and raises it, ready to smash it down and turn Baikal's face into a bloody mess.

Restraint. Humility. Chalice's words, Azrael's words, and they cut through the adrenaline that is flooding Khan's brain. He cannot afford to kill Baikal. He has won, and that is all that is necessary. Khan lets the mace fall from his hand and he steps back, keeping respectful distance as the countdown ends.

The gong sounds. "The fight goes to the United States."

* * *

Khan paces restlessly in the small examining room. His wrist has been set, his fractured cheekbone x-rayed, the puncture wounds in his back bandaged, and he's been given a rare dose of painkillers to take the edge off the injuries. Ordinarily champions don't receive analgesics, but Khan will be forced to talk to reporters during the post-fight press conference, and the program does not want him to be out of his head with agony.

He can't help turning his performance in the fight over and over in his head, and the more he thinks about it, the more amazed he is that he's even alive at all. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. Baikal could have forsaken his antiquated notion of honor and simply hacked Khan's head off with the sword; when Khan tempted him into the bear hug, he could have choked him to death instead; he could have trapped both of Khan's arms instead of just the uninjured one. In the end, Khan decides, it came down to Baikal's arrogance against Khan's cunning, with a large amount of luck thrown in. But he has won. He has won and for the moment, he is the most successful champion in the world.

The door opens and Chalice comes in. Even in the two days since Khan last saw her, she has progressed; rather than the walker, she is using a cane. There is a broad smile on her face, but Khan sees her hand shaking as she closes the door behind her.

"Congratulations," she tells him. "You just beat the best champion in the field."

"Does that make me the best?"

Chalice snorts, and Khan is relieved to see some of the tremors vanish from her hands. "No, that makes you insanely lucky. But I'd say you're off to a good start. How's your hand?"

"Good," Khan says. "They gave me painkillers."

"Nice," Chalice says approvingly. "Looks like they're giving you the royal treatment, but then again, you are their star. I was seated next to a couple people from the program. The instant the countdown ended they all got messages on their tablets from people wanting to book you on TV. You're not going to get back to the compound for a week."

"How are the commentators reacting?" Khan asks. There's always commentary on the fights, and while Khan thinks that a champion's performance can speak for itself, the commentators are internationally recognized and their opinions can influence decisions about challenges and resource disputes.

"Favorably," Chalice says with a shrug. She leans back against the wall. "No one was expecting you to win, and now they're all falling over themselves to talk about how amazing you are." She frowns. "Don't let it go to your head. You got out of there mostly on luck, and I'm going to tell Singh that we'd better make sure that you fight Viktoria next time Russia and the U.S. have a spat."

"Russia will make sure that they field Baikal," Khan points out. "He's still their ranking champion."

"They don't have to hold off for long," Chalice says. "Once you get a couple more fights in you'll be more than a match for Baikal. You did well today, Khan. None of the other trainees would have survived if they'd been in your spot."

Khan feels a glow of satisfaction at the compliment. Chalice comes close and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes briefly, and lets go. "I'm proud of you," she tells him. "Now, I think it's time for you to go out to your press conference."

Even though he matches Chalice's pace as they walk down the hall, Khan can't keep the spring out of his step. He's not given to displays of emotion, and he knows that he must contain himself at the press conference, but he feels unbelievably light, as though every obstacle in his way has been removed. He knows there will be other fights, other dangerous battles. Yet today, of all days, he feels he's entitled to pride.

The instant the door into the room where the press conference is being held opens, a wave of sound washes over Khan. With Chalice at his side, he walks onto the small stage and stands before the massed reporters and dignitaries. Chalice reaches down, grabs Khan's uninjured wrist, and lifts it in a universal gesture of victory. The crowd responds with a roar of approval, and as cameras flash and people shout his name, Khan allows the smallest smile to curve his lips. This is why he worked so hard to become a champion. This is what he has been waiting for.

* * *

**Please review. The next update will occur in a few days.**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks to Anla'shok, IWillNeverStopFangirling, Sam Mayer, and WhenTheSaintsGoMarchingIn for reviewing.

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_try to remember the very last time_

Khan never imagined that he would miss the compound, but after a week in which he appears on every TV show, visits every big city, and shakes hands with every celebrity who begs the program to be seen with him, he's glad to return. His injuries have healed nicely; he has full use of his wrist, x-rays reveal that his cheekbone is whole once again, and the punctures in his back have vanished with nary a scar. He returns to the compound late at night and sleeps harder than he's slept since Chalice's fight, and when he wakes up, he feels oddly content. _It's good to be home_, he thinks as he walks through the familiar halls. _Home_.

As he makes his way down to the mess hall he can feel people staring at him. Young trainees, peering out of the rooms they share with three of their fellows. Older ones, who have survived the gauntlet of tests, watching him with undisguised envy. Even the white-coated researchers look at him differently. Khan knows his story is one of the stranger ones; most of those who become champions start at the top of their class rather than struggling to get there. He makes an effort not to let the attention get inside his head. He doesn't want to make the mistake of buying into his own press.

Baikal, despite his loss to Khan, came out of the fight relatively undamaged, but he has had a bad week. In his fight with Azrael five days after the bout in Rio, he lost resoundingly when the Sinai champion played injured, tempted him into a bear hug, and proceeded to throw him much more elegantly than Khan had. It was Azrael's first victory, and Khan felt satisfied to know he'd had a hand in it.

Chalice was less than thrilled. She'd called him from the compound the minute the broadcast was over. "Please tell me you had nothing to do with that."

Khan had done his best to explain his reasoning, but he still got the sense that Chalice believed he'd made a mistake. "Don't do it again," was all she'd said before hanging up.

When he meets her in the mess hall, he's glad to see that she's not angry. It was hard to tell over the phone. "Hello, Chalice. How is your back?"

"It's good," Chalice says. She tugs out a chair for him and he sits down. "They think I might have to use the cane on and off for a while, but I'm eighty percent functional. So what was it like out in the big bad world?"

Khan tells her about the highlights of the trip. Seeing the ocean in San Francisco, the mountains in Denver, and a special side trip to the Grand Canyon in the southwest. He tells Chalice about his fans, mostly women, who showed up wherever he went carrying signs that read 'We love you, Khan', and she laughs. "What's so funny?"

"After my first fight, I got two hundred and sixty-eight marriage proposals," she tells him, chuckling into her water glass. "You're getting off easy."

"How are things here?" Khan asks. An attendant sets a plate down in front of him and he starts eating, surprised to find that after days of exotic food, the bland program fare doesn't turn his stomach.

"They're all right," Chalice says. She glances at the doors, then back to Khan, then at the doors again.

"What is it?" Khan asks.

"Dr. Singh is introducing your partner today," Chalice says. "They finished running tests two days ago and everything looks good, but they wanted to wait until you got back before they brought her in."

Khan glances around the hall and realizes that it's busier than usual. Instead of just the older trainees eating in the hall, there are large groups of young children, dressed in gray uniforms and glancing nervously at the older trainees. "Is that why everyone is here?"

Chalice nods. "It should be any minute now."

Dr. Singh enters the hall four minutes later, but he is alone. Still, the eyes of all the trainees, young and old alike, follow him as he walks to the platform at the front of the room. He clears his throat and begins to speak. "As most of you know, UN resolution 72 is expected to pass the General Assembly and take effect next year. The doubles rule, as I believe it is known, hands a large advantage to the Russian and Far Eastern fighters. We aim to remedy that."

Khan looks around at Balanchine's trainees, seated at a table in front of him. Most of them are watching Dr. Singh with blank expressions, and Khan is absolutely certain that they have no idea what is about to happen.

Dr. Singh continues speaking. "In order to give ourselves the best chance under the new rules, we have created a new champion, who will serve as Khan's partner in the doubles fights. You are about to meet her. Masada?" he calls. "Come in."

The doors open again, but Khan can't see the person who walks through because everyone else in the hall springs to their feet, craning their neck to get a look at the newest trainee. He sees Midway's usually calm features turn bright red with anger and wonders if the other man only just realized that he is farther away from the arena than he thought.

Masada. It's a strange name, nothing Khan is familiar with, and he's about to ask Chalice what it means when Masada climbs onto the platform and he finally gets a good look at her. She is wearing a gray uniform, just like the rest of the trainees, and her hair has been cut short, but it is undoubtedly Malak Campbell, the woman he met at Chalice's last fight.

"I know her," Khan hisses at Chalice.

"That's not possible," Chalice responds, clapping politely.

"She was sitting next to me at your last fight," Khan says. "Her name used to be Malak and she somehow guessed that I was part of the program."

Now Chalice looks at him, surprise coloring her features. "Singh let you out of the compound?"

"Never mind that," Khan says, but Chalice's response to it reminds him just how unprecedented it was. Trainees almost never leave the compound, and when they do, it is under heavy guard. Dr. Singh allowing Khan to leave, accompanied only by the doctor himself, is downright bizarre. Khan turns to Chalice again, an idea forming in his mind. "Do you think -"

He stops, because Singh is making his way toward their table, accompanied by Malak - _no, Masada_, he reminds himself. "Here," the doctor is saying to the new champion. "Sit with Chalice and Khan."

Masada sits down across from them and a plate is immediately deposited in front of her. Dr. Singh looks at them, his three champions all together, and nods, satisfied. "I will see you all later," he says, and walks away.

"Masada," Chalice says to her, because the other woman is sitting there staring blankly at the table, "this is Khan."

Masada looks at him, and for the first time, Khan sees a spark of awareness in her eyes. "I've seen you before," she says.

"Yes, you have," Chalice says. Khan gives her a look, but she ignores it. "You watched him fight last week, remember?"

"No, before that. I -" Masada starts, but then she shakes her head and glances away. "You're right. It must have been from then."

Khan studies her intently. He's seen young trainees fresh from their memory wipes, but never an adult, and it's bizarre to see one staring down at her plate as though she doesn't remember what silverware is for. He hopes the memory wipe hasn't permanently damaged her mind. It will be hard enough surviving a doubles fight with an inexperienced partner; surviving it with a brain-damaged one will be nearly impossible.

Furious whispers from the table where Balanchine's trainees sit attract Khan's attention, and he sneaks a glance at them. Midway is talking intently, and the rest of the trainees - Antietam, Marathon, Alamo, and Normandy - are listening. Antietam looks faintly alarmed, but Midway's rage is mirrored on the others' faces. Undoubtedly Balanchine's trainees are angry that someone else has been advanced to a position that they all covet, but Khan is sure they'll get over it soon.

"When do I start training?" Masada asks Chalice, and Khan turns his attention back to his own table. Thankfully, Masada seems to have figured out how to use silverware and she's picking through her food.

"Today, as soon as you're done eating. We have a lot of work to do," Chalice tells her. "I'll be observing everything."

"Any advice?" Masada says. One hand lifts and she scratches at her upper arm through her sleeve.

"Don't," Khan says, and she looks up.

"Don't what?"

"Leave your tattoo alone," he tells her. "If it's damaged you will face consequences."

After scratching at it for days, Khan managed to obscure one of the numbers in his own tattoo as a child, and he was punished severely; he spent a week locked in his room with no food and one cup of water per day. He hopes Masada won't inquire as to what the consequences might be, and he's in luck. Masada just nods and leaves the tattoo alone.

Two attendants come for Masada and lead her down to the practice rooms. Chalice starts clearing her plate, but before she leaves as well, she looks at Khan. "What do you think of her?"

"Something is not right with her," Khan says.

"Of course it isn't," Chalice says patiently. "She had twenty-two years of memories shaping her personality and now they're all gone. She hasn't got a clue who she is."

"She will recover?" Khan says uncertainly. Then he remembers Chalice's earlier jabs relating to this topic and qualifies the question. "I only ask because it will be difficult to see her as indispensable if…"

"She will," Chalice says. "You don't remember, but you were just like this after they cleared your memories. It'll be fine. By the time the doubles fights roll around you'll have the best battle partner in the world."

Khan stays put as the hall slowly empties around him, trainees being marched off to their tests, attendants leaving to deal with other responsibilities. Soon it's just Khan and the table of Balanchine's trainees; they are the only ones who are capable of setting their own schedules. Khan can't stop thinking about the blankness in Masada's eyes. It was as though there was nothing at all behind them, and Chalice and Dr. Singh expect to turn that shell of a person into an effective champion in less than a year? He can't imagine how it will be done, if it even can be done.

"Khan!"

He looks up, surprised, and finds Midway's angry face inches away from his own. "What?"

"Did you know about this?" Midway demands, and beneath his anger, Khan senses something else; betrayal. Midway truly believed that he would be advanced, and for a second, Khan feels sorry for him.

"No," Khan lies, and he gets up, deliberately turning his back on Midway and leaving the mess hall.

He has no clear destination in mind, but he's not surprised when he finds himself in the researchers' wing, heading for Dr. Singh's office. He passes the labs, where a new crop of trainees are lying senseless on long rows of cots, waiting for their genetic enhancements to begin. Khan stops for a second and looks at them. They are both genders and all races - Singh must have had more control over choice this year - and they are all young, not a one of them over ten years old. A quick count reveals that there are fifty of them. By the time they are Khan's age, their numbers will have been cut in half.

He keeps walking. The door to Dr. Singh's office is open, and so he goes right in. The doctor looks up at him. "Yes, Khan?"

"Did you set me up to meet her?" Khan says, going straight to the point.

Dr. Singh doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "We had several candidates, and she was our top choice, but I believed that the two of you should meet before we made the final selection. One of her professors is an old friend of mine. I called in a favor and made sure she would be at the fight. Is there a problem?"

"No," Khan says quickly.

"If that is all, then, I must return to work," Dr. Singh says. "This year's crop of trainees is the largest I have ever seen. Good day."

Khan nods and retreats back down the hall, mulling it over. He can understand Dr. Singh's logic - in fact, it would have been strange for the doctor not to make sure they met before he forced them to trust each other with their lives - but there are multiple holes in the plan. What is going to happen when Masada is introduced and her mother realizes that her daughter is not dead after all? A scandal of massive proportions will engulf both the program and the government. Perhaps they plan to change her face using plastic surgery, but if that had been their plan, why did they not make the adjustments at the same time as the genetic enhancements? It makes no sense, so Khan goes to find the person who always helps him straighten things out.

He finds Chalice in the practice rooms, supervising a class of twelve-year-olds who are training with staffs. She's watching them through a thick window and occasionally conversing with the researchers.

"Eighteen's improved a lot," she is saying as he enters the room. "Take her off the list."

"You have to cut the class by three trainees," one of the researchers objects.

"Yes, and we have four on the list," Chalice says. She hears the door close and looks up. "Ah. Maybe Khan can help us settle this. What do you think of number eighteen?"

It derails him for a second. "Which one?"

"Eighteen," Chalice says, and points to a stocky brown-haired girl who is wielding a staff with a look of intense concentration on her face. "Watch her and tell me what you think."

Khan studies the girl, making note of her reaction time, her grip on the staff, the position of her arms and legs. Physically, she does not look like much, but neither did Khan at her age and he knew twenty ways to kill with his bare hands. "She seems to be progressing on schedule."

"I told you. Take her off the list," Chalice says. The researcher scowls and deletes trainee Eighteen's name.

"Is this your final selection?" another researcher inquires. Chalice nods. "We'll take it to the directors."

The researchers get up and file out of the room, but Chalice stays, watching the trainees, and so does Khan. He sits down in one of the empty chairs. "I went to see Dr. Singh."

"Why?" Chalice doesn't take her eyes off the practice room. "To find out that he set you up to meet Masada?"

Khan doesn't answer the question. "It's strange," he says instead. "I don't understand why, when so much is at risk, they chose to create a new champion who might not even be ready in time. I could have fought with you as my partner."

"That wouldn't have worked even if I hadn't gotten hurt," Chalice says. "I'm too protective of you. And besides, I'm too old. But that's not what's bothering you, is it?"

Khan stays silent for a second, trying to phrase the question in a way that won't come across as offensive. "Taking unwanted children and turning them into champions is one thing, Chalice, but an adult? It is wrong."

"Would it be more wrong for you to get killed because your partner doesn't protect you?" Chalice looks at him at last, and her gaze is diamond-hard. "Would it be more wrong for us to lose a fight with Russia, not over oil or territory, but over something important like water, or food? And tell me, Khan, would it be more wrong to lose millions of lives in a world war? One person's life isn't a good enough reason not to do something."

She shakes her head, and that coldness disappears from her face. "And besides, Khan, what makes you think all of us were unwanted children? I came from a foster home, but there are plenty of others who didn't."

"What do you mean?" Khan says. He hasn't thought much about where he came from, since he doesn't remember anything. "Do you know where I came from?"

"It's not my place to tell you that," Chalice says, looking away. "You can access your file and see if you want."

"The files are sealed."

"Not for you," Chalice says. "There's no file in the facility you can't access now. But it won't make you happy, and it won't change anything, so think about it before you look."

Her wristband flashes and she looks down. "They just sent Masada into the maze. Want to observe?"

Khan suppresses a shudder. Even after all these years, he still avoids the maze, and he's not the only one; most of the older trainees stay away as well. He shakes his head. His interest in his new partner is not so great that he will go into the labyrinth again.

Chalice nods. She reaches for her cane and levers herself up, beginning the slow, unsteady walk to the door. As she passes him, she lays a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry so much, Khan. It'll be all right."

_It's not_, thinks Khan. He thinks about the enormous class of trainees he saw waiting in the labs, Balanchine's power plays, Taiga's insanity, and of course, Masada. He has been in the program for as long has he can remember, and in that time, precious little has changed; but now things are changing too quickly for him to master. And he must master them. He is the U.S. champion. And if the recent fights have taught him anything, it is that there is no place in the arena for mistakes.

As Khan leaves the viewing room, his eyes are drawn to trainee eighteen. He wonders if she knows now, or if she will ever know, that today her life was spared.

After leaving the practice rooms, he tracks down a researcher and requests access to the trainee files, half expecting to be refused. Without batting an eye, the researcher gives him the room number, warns him that voice identification is required for entry, and offers to draw him a map. As he walks through unfamiliar hallways, Khan marvels at how things have changed since his victory. Before, the researchers ignored him, and now they do whatever he wants.

The room he's seeking is down on the second-lowest level, and he has to pass the viewing room of the labyrinth to get there. He feels an unwelcome chill as he walks by the closed door. According to the researchers, the maze is supposed to teach flexible thinking, but as far as Khan can tell, it only inspires terror. He wonders how Masada's handling it, and almost as soon as he forms the thought, he pushes it away.

When he finds the room he's looking for, Khan stops. The motion sensor flickers, and an electronic voice orders him to identify himself.

"Khan Noonien Singh," he says.

"Voice match confirmed."

The door swings open and Khan steps into total darkness. He backs up, intending to leave, but the door closes and he's left with standing still, peering into the black for some landmark, but even his enhanced eyes cannot pierce the dark. Khan retreats until he reaches the wall, then feels for a light switch and flips it on. The fluorescent lights reveal a massive room that appears to be filled with coffins.

_Idiot_, Khan chides himself. He takes a second look and realizes that the shapes aren't coffins; they're simply boxes, lying in long rows on the floor, organized by year. Even the ones nearest to him, files on last year's trainees, are coated with dust. All except for one.

Khan kneels down beside it and studies the label. ID#170116 CN Fortress. He hooks his thumbs beneath the lid and opens it, revealing multiple compartments. He picks one at random and opens it, finding a flash-frozen case containing two vials of blood; one labeled pre-enhancement and the other labeled post-enhancement. Another compartment contains a series of printouts, which upon closer inspection turn out to be test results on a variety of subjects. The third compartment he opens holds a profile, and on the first page of the folder is a photograph of Masada.

This must be her file. He flips through the folder, scanning each page. Date of birth, father's name and country of origin, mother's name and - Khan stops, frowning. Why on earth would the birthplace of Nadezhda Peres be classified? He puts it out of his mind and sets the file back in its place, turning his attention to the fourth and final compartment, the largest of them all.

For a moment Khan has trouble understanding what's inside. A pile of clothes, a pair of boots, a book, jewelry jumbled together, a battered leather wallet; what place do these objects have in a scientific file? Then he looks at the book, realizes that he's seen it before, and understands. These were the objects Masada had on her person when she was taken. This is all that remains of her old life.

Irritated with himself, Khan slams the lid of the box shut and pushes it back into place. He's letting himself get distracted. He should proceed directly to his own box, find out what he wants to know, and leave.

Despite his best intentions, however, Khan remains distracted, especially when he reaches the boxes from his own year. The program keeps all the files, even those on trainees who were terminated, and as he passes each box he recognizes the number and remembers the person who was not so lucky as he was. The CN designation appears on only a few boxes, and it occurs to Khan that it's yet another name for each trainee who reached adulthood. CN Island - Midway. CN Race - Marathon. CN Slaughter - Antietam. He has to fight the urge to open all the boxes, forcing himself to concentrate on his objective. And there, last on the row, is ID#139476 CN Conqueror; Khan's own file.

He sits down in front of it and opens the lid. Flash-frozen blood sample; test results; profile. He selects the profile and is startled to see a picture of himself as a child, dark-haired and pale with wide blue eyes. Below it lies his date of birth, something he realizes he doesn't know, and he commits it to memory. At last he can correctly place his own age; he's twenty-two, ten years younger than Chalice and the same age as Masada.

His parents' names are Peter and Elizabeth Harrison, from the United States. There are headshots of each of them, and Khan studies them intently, noting that he resembles his mother more closely but has his father's eyes. Beneath their names and photographs is a single line of text, and Khan has to read it multiple times before he understands. _Parents volunteered their son for the program_.

Volunteered.

In the back of his mind, Khan always assumed that he was an orphan, like Chalice; that he'd lost his parents somehow and the program had taken him in. He struggles to marshal his thoughts, force them to accept this new reality. He hadn't lost his parents. They'd given him up of their own free will. With more control than he knew he possessed, Khan closes the profile and replaces it in its compartment, resisting the urge to lift the entire box and smash it into tiny pieces. He's furious - no, not furious, confused - not confused, hurt. Hurt. What a ridiculous feeling. He has no recollection of these people, their faces stir nothing in his memory, and yet he's upset because they gave him away.

Chalice's words echo in his mind, reminding him that this is a bad idea, but he ignores them. Instead he opens the last compartment and beholds the detritus of his old life. Children's clothing, shoes with wheels on them. He has less in this compartment than Masada does, but that makes sense; children rarely carry their own belongings. The clothes are neatly folded. He can see something poking out of the pocket of the pants and he reaches for it, coming away with a tiny model of a space shuttle in his hand.

Khan sets it in his palm and studies it. The paint has been worn away on the sides, but the name of the shuttle is still visible, as well as a tiny American flag. Endeavour. He's read the instructions for the delivery of new trainees to the program, and they clearly state that trainees are not to bring personal items. Like Chalice had all those years before, he must have snuck this along. For the life of him, even though he thinks about it for a full five minutes, Khan cannot remember why this toy was so important to him.

Chalice, as usual, was right; going through his file was a mistake. Khan stands up, ready to leave, and he moves to put the space shuttle back in its compartment. He pauses; then he slips it into the pocket of his own uniform, closes the lid of the box, and leaves.

* * *

**Please review.**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to Anla'shok, Tempest Cain, and Sam Mayer for reviewing.

* * *

_part of the disease_

Khan's days fall into a pattern that is only slightly different from the way they were before he became the champion. He wakes at the same hour as all the others, eats with them, trains when he feels like it, reads when he doesn't, and mostly he waits. He knows that he can be challenged at any moment, by any country, and although he might have frightened them off with his defeat of Baikal, they won't be running scared for long.

He sees very little of Masada, and therefore, very little of Chalice, because his friend has thrown herself into the task of training Masada wholeheartedly. In order for the two of them to be an effective team in the arena, Masada must become Khan's equal, and with less than a year to do so Khan has trouble believing she'll be ready. Chalice thinks otherwise, and two days after their meeting in the practice room, he receives a note from her: _She beat the maze_. It's phrased strangely, and Khan tracks down Chalice to ask her about it.

"I meant it. She beat the maze," Chalice says, her eyes fixed on the window. Masada is running pacers in the practice rooms, an electronic monitor clamped around her ankle. "Even when we shifted the walls on her, she got out."

"The labyrinth is meant to be unsolvable," Khan says uncomfortably. Once a trainee has succeeded in solving the maze, they're placed back in the center and the walls are shifted, to prevent them from memorizing the route. Should they complete the maze again, they're put in the center once more, and the walls are shifted even as they try to find their way out. If a trainee is unable to make it past the first level, they are immediately terminated. No one - at least not in Khan's memory - has ever solved the third level.

"No, it's not. That's trainee gossip," Chalice says. She waves a hand impatiently. "She's smart, Khan. She's going to be good at this."

Khan shakes his head. He found Masada's file impressive. If they had more time, he has no doubt she would make a deadly fighter, but they have no time, and so he believes she'll be more trouble than she's worth. And there is trouble coming. Khan can sense the tension every time he encounters Balanchine's trainees. Most of them refuse to even look at him, and while they're polite to Chalice, it's reluctantly so. One day, while he and Midway are training side by side in a practice room, he happens to mention Masada in passing, and Midway misses the target completely and hurls his trident through a window.

Khan frowns. While Midway is known for his difficulty with hanging onto his weapon, this is an entirely new level. "Perhaps you should see a doctor. Your muscles appear to be degenerating."

"I'm fine," Midway says. He retrieves his trident from among the cubes of safety glass and puts it into the center ring of the target from thirty feet away. It's a difficult shot, made worse by the angle, and yet Midway makes it look easy. "Just don't mention her around me again."

Khan nods and goes back to his sword drill, thinking that Midway is overreacting a little, as he is known to do. Whereas Khan only displays his temper when he believes he will gain something from it, Midway is prone to outbursts, and they happen so frequently that no one takes much notice.

Since the incident, however, Khan has been careful to keep any information to himself. He knows that Midway and the other trainees are angry, but he doesn't believe they'll actually do anything about it. The repercussions would be too great, and while they may not be as intelligent as Khan himself, Balanchine's trainees are not stupid. They value their lives too much to attempt to harm Masada.

It's not until a month after Masada arrives - eleven more to go - that he's proven wrong.

Dr. Singh, upon realizing that Khan has had next to no interaction with his soon-to-be battle partner, has mandated that they take their meals together. It's a seemingly innocuous request, but Khan happens to know that an article recently appeared in a prestigious medical journal on the psychological effects of shared mealtimes, and he disapproves of the attempt to manipulate him. Luckily, Masada feels the same way. Tonight's conversation topic is international relations, a topic in which, after Khan's disastrous performance at the Summit, Chalice has decided that both of them require schooling. She starts off with the easy questions. "Masada, who is our chief ally?"

"The Europeans," Masada says.

"Khan, who is our chief enemy?"

"The Contras," Khan says. He's bored with the discussion already; he might as well see how Chalice will react to a blatantly wrong answer.

"Fine. Defend it," Chalice tells him, and he struggles through an explanation about shared borders and ideological differences. She gives him a look that says quite clearly that she expects better and turns to Masada. "Who is our chief enemy?"

"The Sinai Confederacy," Masada says innocently. Khan looks at her, surprised that she's gotten in on his game, but she's studying her plate and she doesn't see him.

Chalice rolls her eyes. "Everyone's a smart-mouth today. Go ahead, Masada. Defend your position."

"Well," Masada says, considering it, "they don't get involved in the territorial fights, and it's not because they can't. Azrael can compete with anyone. They're keeping to themselves and they're waiting us out."

"Waiting who out?"

"Us. Russia. The EU. Everybody," Masada says. "We're all fighting it out over oil and exhausting our own supply. The lands of the Sinai Confederacy contain ninety percent of the remaining oil reserves. As soon as we run out, we're going to have to go to them, and they'll be the most powerful alliance in the world."

"Not bad," Chalice tells her. "You think on your feet pretty well."

"I used to be in debate club," Masada explains, and Khan gives her a strange look. She blinks, confused, and shakes her head. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from."

It's not the first time something like that has happened. Khan's noticed it before with Masada; casual references to a life that no longer exists. But he hasn't spent much time around recently mind-wiped people. It could be par for the course for all he knows. "You're right about the Sinai Confederacy," he says to her, "except for one thing. You're basing your response off the assumption that the arena fights will still be in place by the time the oil reserves are gone."

"Won't they?"

The image of the fifty new trainees comes unbidden into Khan's mind. A little research showed him that the classes have been growing every year since he arrived, and there's only one reason he can think of for so many being genetically enhanced when few of them will ever see the inside of an arena. "I doubt it. Historically, we take what we want from other countries regardless of the rules."

"So you think global war is a possibility?" Masada challenges him.

"We're already having a global war," Khan answers. "It may not resemble the last one, but it is a global war nonetheless."

"That wasn't my question. Do you think there will be a true world war?"

"Cut it out, you two," Chalice says before Khan can answer that yes, he thinks there will be a war, and people like the two of them will be on the front lines. "You're supposed to be getting along."

Masada laughs at that, and even Khan cracks a smile. Then the courier enters the hall and marches toward them, a mail tube under his arm, and all the merriment vanishes.

"Khan Noonien Singh, U.S. champion?"

"Yes." Inwardly, Khan is screaming for the man to get to the point, but couriers tend to carry gossip along with mail and he doesn't want his temper to become widespread knowledge. "What is it?"

"The Contras have challenged the U.S. claim to the water rights of the Rio Grande," the courier says. "A dam is being built in U.S. territory that will cut off Contra access to the water. This dispute is to be settled in the arena. The fight will take place in Kinshasa, in one week's time, and the combatants will be Khan Noonien Singh and Mayari. Do you accept the terms?"

"I do," Khan says, and the courier hands him the mail tube. He opens it and reads in the declaration the same information he just received. The ghost of a smile crosses his face, and when the courier leaves, he says, "Tell me again that the Contras aren't our worst enemy, Chalice."

She takes the declaration out of his hand, worry drawing lines in her forehead. "This is an important one," she says quietly. "If we lose the river, the southwest goes dry and we lose the farms, too."

"It's Mayari," Khan says. "Are you truly worried?"

"Mayari has years of experience, and she's not above cheating to get what she wants," Chalice says. "It would be an unbelievable win for the Contras. This is one fight you cannot afford to lose."

"I know that."

"I don't think you do," Chalice says, and the words cut deep. "The stakes are much higher now than they were in your last fight."

Khan isn't sure whether to laugh or get angry, and in the end, both emotions come through in his words. "The prize in the last fight was only my life; I suppose I was foolish to believe that was important."

"That's not what I meant," Chalice says quietly. She puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off, and the table falls into uneasy silence.

Khan pokes at his food, and finally pushes his plate away. He's not hungry any longer. He moves to return the plate, but Masada stacks it neatly on her own plate, piles their silverware on top of it, and heads for the washing station before he can even stand up. It occurs to Khan that she's giving him time to talk to Chalice, and while her perceptiveness makes him more than a little uncomfortable, he's grateful for it.

Chalice speaks first. "For all intents and purposes, you are my brother, Khan. I value your life above all things. But the directors, the researchers, Balanchine - they don't think like I do. You have value for them only when you win, and if you lose, you know that there are others who will try to take your place."

Midway. In fact, any of Balanchine's trainees would jump at the chance. "So must I win every fight?"

Chalice's answer is drowned out by the sharp sound of shattering porcelain, and Khan whips around. He sees Masada on the ground, Marathon towering over her, and the remains of a plate in his hand. It takes him a second to realize what happened. Marathon draws back his foot to kick at the downed trainee, and Khan lunges out of his chair, knocking tables aside in an effort to get to Marathon. Masada is in danger and he knows that no one else in the hall will come to her aid. The other man has time to kick Masada once before Khan plows into him and hits him hard enough to break his jaw.

"Leave her be," Khan snaps.

Marathon spits blood into Khan's face and punches him in the stomach. He struggles so hard against Khan's hold that Khan loses his grip. Fortunately, Marathon is immediately collared by Midway and several more of Balanchine's trainees, and as they hold him down, an attendant rushes over and injects the frenzied man with enough sedative to kill an ordinary human. Marathon goes limp.

Khan turns to Masada. She's trying to get up, but Khan forces her back down. There's blood running sluggishly from her temple. He lifts a hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She answers correctly, and he allows her to sit up. "What happened?" he demands.

"I walked past their table," Masada says, "and Marathon hit me in the side of the head with a plate."

"There was no warning?" Khan resists the urge to shake her until she comes up with a satisfactory answer. "Is there anything that might have made him do this?"

"No," Chalice says, and he looks up at her. "She's had next to no interaction with them. As far as I can tell, the only times they see her are at meals."

Chalice glances at Marathon, who's being strapped to a stretcher and dragged out of the room. "I'm surprised it was him," she says in a low voice.

Khan nods. Out of all the people he would expect to attack Masada, Marathon was lowest on the list. He is the same age as Khan and Midway, but he has always trailed far behind them, and as far as Khan knows, the directors wouldn't send him into the arena unless they had no one else. There is no motive for the attack, no sense of betrayal and no jealousy. If Midway had been the one to attack Masada, at least Khan would have known why. This out of the blue strike worries him more.

"I'm ordering a protection detail," Chalice says.

Masada shakes her head, then winces. "No, you can't. If you protect me you'll only make them hate me more."

Chalice opens her mouth to respond, but then Dr. Singh hurries into the hall in a state of panic, followed closely by Balanchine. "Take her back to her room, Khan. I'll handle this."

"I can get there myself," Masada protests, but Chalice stands firm, and Masada reluctantly allows Khan to help her up. As soon as they're out of the mess hall, she pulls her arm free. "I'm fine."

"You could have a concussion."

"I'm fairly sure that I don't."

"All the same, you should accept help when you require it," Khan says. He remembers Chalice in the maze, tries to model that same kindness, but Masada is the same age as him and he will be required to trust her with his life and he can't manage it.

Masada sighs. "What's going to happen to Marathon?"

"He'll probably be terminated," Khan says. Other trainees have gone mad - it's rare, but not unheard of - and they've always vanished. But their madness was wild and futile, impairing their faculties, while Marathon's seemed to strengthen him. Khan decides not to dwell on it. "He is replaceable, and at the moment, you are a higher priority for the program than anyone else."

Masada pulls her sleeve down over her hand and starts wiping blood off her temple. "You made some enemies tonight by helping me. Why'd you do it?"

It's a fair question. In another minute or so the attendants would have realized what was happening and tranquilized Marathon, or some of the trainees not aligned with Balanchine would have snapped out of their shock, and the damage to Masada, while painful, would not have been severe. Khan's intervention was wholly unnecessary. He can't pretend that it was a calculated move, designed to help him win her trust, either; he reacted as he would have reacted if his own life or Chalice's were on the line. There's no good explanation for his actions.

In the end he just shrugs. "We'll have to trust each other with our lives at some point. I was getting an early start."

Masada smiles a little at that. They walk on in silence for a while, and Masada stops in front of a room that is not far from his own. "Thank you," she says, "for helping me. I hope I can return the favor at some point."

Then she goes into her room and closes the door behind her, leaving Khan standing in the hallway. He's not sure where to go next - certainly not back to his room, and certainly not anywhere he might come across other trainees - and finally he makes his way to one of the research rooms, where he starts up a computer and begins to watch the videos of all of Mayari's fights. His new opponent is excellent at adapting to whatever terrain she is placed in, and time and time again he sees her lever that into an advantage against some skilled opponent. While Chalice never lost to her, Mayari has beaten nearly every other champion in the field, whether through outright trickery (as in the case of several territory disputes with the Far East over islands in the Pacific Ocean) or simply winning through another's arrogance as Khan did against Baikal. She is not powerful, nor particularly skilled, but she knows how to work with what she has.

The United States keeps files on all enemy champions, and since the Contras and the U.S. share a hemisphere, their files on Mayari are extensive. They do not detail the exact nature of Mayari's enhancements, but they speculate, and what Khan sees worries him. Mayari has been enhanced for intelligence, strength, and speed, and there is substantial evidence that her emotions have been twisted beyond repair.

"She's one of the scary ones," says someone from behind him, and Khan glances over his shoulder to see Chalice.

"What happened to Marathon?" he asks.

"He's in the slammer," Chalice says, using the trainee slang for solitary confinement. "Singh wanted him terminated - I've never seen him get that mad before - but Balanchine talked the directors out of it. She said she wants to study him. See if she can figure out why it happened." Chalice snorts. "She knows why it happened. She did it."

"What?" Khan says blankly. Yes, Balanchine has killed more trainees than any other researcher, but to go so far as to drive a trainee mad? She is power-hungry, yes, but not stupid.

Chalice sits down in a chair, resting her cane across her lap. "Singh runs the program, but he lets Balanchine do her own thing because she's gotten in good with the board of directors. If he leaves her alone, she leaves him alone. Well, it turns out she's been doing something with all that alone time; she's been messing around with the emotional centers of some of her trainees, trying to figure out how to get a killing machine minus the crazy."

"All she has to do is look at Mayari," Khan mutters. He indicates the Contra champion's photograph, still on his screen.

"It comes out one way or another," Chalice says. She sighs. "They always snap. Balanchine really thought she had it with Marathon, and then he went berserk and tried to kill Masada. How is she, by the way?"

"She seems fine," Khan says, hoping Chalice will leave it alone. Instead she studies him, with a glint in her eye that makes him uncomfortable.

"Do you like her?" Chalice inquires.

"Whether I like her or not is immaterial," Khan says. "Tell me, how is Singh reacting to Balanchine's actions?"

"Oh, she's in the doghouse for a while, but she'll be out soon enough,"

Chalice says airily. "And you don't have to answer that last question, Khan. The way you reacted when Marathon clocked her is answer enough."

"I was protecting the program's investment," Khan protests, hating how much he sounds like Midway or, heaven forbid, Balanchine.

"Like I did when I got you out of the maze?" Chalice says, and Khan drops his eyes from her steady gaze. "You and I survive in this place because we look out for each other. You know that."

Khan nods. It is true; without Chalice's protection, he would have been terminated before his twelfth birthday, and without his help, Chalice would have been terminated after her injury. Honestly, this simplifies things for him. All he has to do is add Masada to the list of people he needs to survive, and of course, within a year she will be foremost among them. "I understand."

"Now, about the fight," Chalice says. "I'm sending Masada and Midway with you to Kinshasa."

Khan groans. "No."

"I'm serious -"

"No!" He raises his voice. "Midway can barely tie his own shoes and Masada's been part of the program for all of a month. Not to mention that both of them are so highly classified that one needs code-word clearance to learn of their existence! And you want to send them to _Kinshasa_?"

"After your actions at the Summit, I'm more worried about you than Masada," Chalice says pointedly. "Besides, they're going to present Midway after the doubles fights start, and he needs to start getting some international experience. And he's less likely to mortally insult anyone there."

"Aren't you going?" Khan says.

"I'll coach you this week, but I can't be there," Chalice says. "Singh wants me to investigate what Balanchine's been doing, but we only have access to her labs until she's off probation. She's back on in two weeks."

"And there aren't researchers who can do this?"

Chalice rolls her eyes. "_Now _you're starting to sound like a champion. There's a lot of data to go through, we're short on time, and Singh trusts a grand total of three of the researchers. Between you and Masada, you should be able to keep Midway from causing a diplomatic disaster, and hopefully I can get something on Balanchine to keep her away from the new trainees. I'll see you tomorrow."

Khan echoes her farewell and turns back to the computer. Mayari's face still fills the screen, but somehow, even the prospect of fighting a champion who's known for fighting dirty in the biggest water dispute in the history of the arena pales in comparison to the idea of setting Midway and Masada loose in Central Africa. He closes out of the image and fights the headache that's building in his temples. Khan opens up a search window and looks up the Kinshasa arena. If he's going there, he's going to know exactly what he's getting into.

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**Please review.**


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks to Tempest Cain, Sam Meyer, Anla'shok, Anarane Oronra, and the guest reviewer known as yo for the reviews. Sorry for the gap between updates.

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_the dead land_

If you had given Khan a choice two weeks ago between causing a rift between Drs. Singh and Balanchine and flying with Midway to Kinshasa, he would have automatically chosen the latter. While he may not have the fine-tuned diplomatic sensibilities that Chalice does, he isn't stupid. But now, less than halfway through the flight, he's starting to think that the former is a better option.

"This is awful," Midway says, curling down in his seat. "I hate flying, and I don't like either of you, and I don't get why I have to go. Why can't Chalice go?"

_Because Chalice is busy investigating your doctor_, Khan thinks, but he keeps quiet. Masada, however, has no such compunctions, and she appears to have reached the end of her rope; Midway's been complaining for the past hour.

"You know, you're sitting right over the wing," she says.

Midway squints at her suspiciously. "So?"

"So, statistically, that's the worst place to be if the plane crashes," Masada says.

"Says who?"

Khan twists around in his seat and glares back at them. Masada is sitting two rows back from him, and Midway is across the aisle from her. "I'm going to strangle the next person who talks."

"A little tense, are we?" Midway says. "Big bad Mayari got you running scared?"

Khan ignore the jibe, although there is a grain of truth in it. In a way, this fight makes him more nervous than his last one, due purely to his opponent. With Baikal he knew what he was up against. A winning champion has strategies that they prefer, and they will fall back on them time and time again. A winning champion is predictable. But a losing champion is a different matter. Khan won against Baikal because he knew what the other man was likely to do. He does not have that option with Mayari, and while he is sure of his skills, he is also sure that Mayari will stop at nothing to win.

It is a twelve-hour flight to Kinshasa. They left the compound at midnight. After a week of full-time, wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-run-the-obs tacle-course-with-everything-electrified training, Khan was exhausted. Midway, due to a mistake in his genetic enhancements, is an abnormally heavy sleeper, and he was all but carried onto the plane. As a result, the first hours of the flight were relatively quiet. Not so any longer. Khan wishes he were traveling with Chalice, or if not Chalice, then just Masada. Masada, at least, is capable of keeping her mouth shut.

Khan checks his watch. Four hours left, and he senses that if he leaves Masada within arm's reach of Midway any longer, there will be trouble. "Masada," he says. "Up here."

She gets out of her seat, makes her way up the aisle, steps past Khan, and straps herself in next to him. "In the future," she says quietly once she's settled, "I'd appreciate if you'd stop phrasing requests as orders."

Khan considers it, remembers that he and Masada technically hold the same rank, and realizes that Masada could have undermined him quite easily by refusing in front of Midway. He's grateful that she restrained herself. "Of course," he says. "I wished to speak with you."

"About what?"

And there Khan is stumped. Chalice all but ordered him to attempt to become closer to Masada, but he has no idea how to go about it. His friendship with Chalice came together without effort, and he knows he has always had a particular gift for alienating people; other trainees, doctors, enemy champions like Viktoria. How on earth is he supposed to make Masada like him?

Khan realizes that Masada's waiting for an answer, and he searches for a conversation topic. "How is your injury healing?"

"It was gone in a few hours," Masada says. "Is that normal?"

"Yes," Khan says. "We heal quickly. And have you had any further trouble with Balanchine's -" he remembers Midway and catches himself "- the other trainees?"

"A little. Some of the younger ones had a go at me during group practice," Masada says. She tugs at the neck of her shirt, revealing a fading bruise on her shoulder, and Khan winces. Trainees heal so fast that bruises rarely show, and in order for one to remain more than a few hours after the fact, it must have come from a very powerful strike. "I set them straight."

Balanchine, or one of her older trainees, must have sent out an order to harm Masada. "You should have protection -"

"If another trainee sets out to hurt me, the only person who can protect me is myself. A protection detail won't do anything to stop them," Masada says. "In addition, you know as well as I do that they'll never respect me if they believe I can't take care of myself. And finally, Khan, I will have to fight against far more powerful enemies than a group of disgruntled trainees soon enough. Either I'll learn how to fight, or I'll die."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "I'm sure that both you and your program would prefer I chose the former. Didn't you get beaten up as a trainee?"

Well, yes, but so did everyone else. "That's immaterial. Are you certain you can handle this on your own?"

"It's good preparation for the arena," Masada says with a shrug. "Better than that obstacle course Chalice had us running."

"You, too?" Khan frowns. He didn't see her.

"Where did you think Chalice was while you were taking breaks?" Masada laughs at the look on his face. "I haven't slept in a week. After Marathon attacked me, Dr. Singh ordered my training to be stepped up. Our doctor is a strange man, Khan. There's very little reason to the things he does."

"Excuse me?"

"Take our names, for example," Masada says. "All of Balanchine's trainees are named after famous battles. Midway from World War Two, Antietam from the Civil War, Marathon from the Hellenic wars. There's absolutely no connection between our names. Two of them originate from places our enemies control."

"Mine comes from Dr. Singh's homeland," Khan says. "And yours?"

"It was a fortress in the lands now controlled by the Sinai Confederacy," Masada says. "Its defenders committed suicide rather than be captured and enslaved by the Roman Empire."

Khan catches the past tense. "It _was_?"

"It doesn't exist anymore. The Sinai Confederacy blew it up." Masada laughs a little. "I suppose Singh thought he was being ironic. Anyway, it's not only our names. He's completely blind to the fact that Balanchine wants his job."

"I won't argue that, but I don't believe he should be concerned," Khan says. "Balanchine's trainees -" he glances back, but Midway is asleep "- fail time and time again. They are nothing compared to us."

"It's not them," Masada says, but she doesn't add anything else to the conversation; instead she adjusts her seat and closes her eyes. Khan checks his watch again, then goes over the schedule for their time in Kinshasa in his head. Arrival is set for two-thirty; then, at five o'clock, there is a banquet for various dignitaries. The champions are invited, but Khan isn't planning on attending. His fight with Mayari starts at seven o'clock. He checks his watch and decides to sleep for the rest of the flight. He'll need it.

It is hot in Kinshasa, and so humid that Khan feels like he's swimming rather than walking down the street. There's a fountain nearby, and he resists the urge to dive headlong into it, reminding himself that he represents the U.S. and as such must conduct himself with dignity.

It's strange being out in public here. In the U.S., he'd be surrounded by throngs of people, all asking for his autograph and wanting to touch him; but here, he moves through the street unnoticed. The people will stare at him for a moment, but only because he is pale in a country of dark-skinned citizens, and then return to their activities. There is no interest in him. He rather enjoys it.

Their guide is a tall, dark-skinned man, wearing a suit in defiance of the weather. "Just a little farther," he says in heavily accented English.

"How much farther?" Midway says irritably. His difficulties understanding the man's French accent seem to have dissipated.

The guide indicates an elegant building across the square from them, and Midway picks up the pace, drawing even with the guide before pulling ahead and ducking into the lobby several minutes before everyone else. The guide's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't comment.

"I'm sorry about my colleague," Masada says smoothly. "He's not used to this weather."

The man smiles at her. "Few people are. It is not for everyone. Is this your first visit to Kinshasa?"

Masada nods, and she and the guide make small talk until they reach the thankfully air-conditioned lobby of the hotel. Khan doesn't understand why she's making such an effort to be friendly to the man. Their association with him will be brief, and she shouldn't waste energy earning the goodwill of someone so unimportant.

Their rooms are on the same floor, in the same hallway. Khan allows the others a moment to leave their belongings before summoning them to his room for a meeting. He's decided that the two of them will attend the banquet as representatives of the United States, and he wants to make sure that they've learned their cover identities. Midway appears immediately, but they wait for Masada for more than five minutes, and finally Khan leaves his room, crosses the hall, and knocks on her door. He wonders what's keeping her. He made sure to phrase the summons as a request.

She opens the door immediately, her face grim. "You need to see this."

The TV is on, and Khan is taken aback to see Mayari's face on the screen. She's wearing a gleeful, bloody grin, and in her left hand she holds a messily severed head by the hair. Khan recognizes the head only by the tattoo on the temple; it belongs, or used to belong, to the Far Eastern champion One.

"What the hell?" Midway says from behind him, and Khan impatiently hushes him, watching the coverage.

"In an unscheduled fight over the control of the Philippines, the Contras bested the Far East," a commentator says. "This opens up an entirely new conflict, since the European Union has also laid claim to the islands, and we expect to see further combat over the territory. Mayari's win here was unprecedented, and it will be interesting to see how she handles the new U.S. champion in their upcoming fight. A little later we'll be talking about the ongoing conflict in the -"

The phone starts ringing in Khan's room across the hall and he bolts, grabbing it, hoping it's Chalice. He's not disappointed. "What happened?"

"It came out of nowhere," Chalice says. "There was a coup by Contra supporters in the Philippines and the Far East challenged the alliance, claiming they'd backed it. They fought this morning in the Sydney arena. Your fight's been pushed back until noon the day after tomorrow."

"The forty-eight hour rule," Khan mutters. It mandates a break between fights, to prevent champions who must fight regularly from being at a disadvantage. He thinks of One's severed head and feels sick. He'd much rather face Mayari tonight, when she's tired, than after she's had a few days to rest up. "And until then, what am I supposed to do?"

"Stay put," Chalice says. "If I were you I'd try and see a little more of the city. I'm sure you'll find it eye-opening." She pauses for a second, listening to someone on the other end of the line. "And I need you to attend the banquet tonight."

"What?"

"We found something in the labs," she says. "It looks like some kind of virus. The director of the CDC is going to be at the banquet. I need you to speak to her."

"Isn't the director of the CDC -" Khan starts, but then he remembers and curses to himself. "I cannot speak to Nadezhda Peres."

"You have to," Chalice says. "She mentored Balanchine a while back and she's the person who invented all of this stuff. She's the only one who will know."

"Masada will be there!"

"Keep her out of the way," Chalice says. "Give Midway orders to keep her away from you. This is important, Khan. We only have a week left and we have to know what we're working with. I'll send you a description of the virus."

"Chalice," Khan says. He hesitates, remembering his training, and then decides that he can't let it go. "Did Mayari appear to you to be…mad, at all?"

Chalice is quiet. "No," she says after a moment. "Just vicious, and that's nothing new. It's going to be all right, Khan. Just keep your eyes open and you'll be fine."

She hangs up, and Khan turns around to find Midway and Masada watching him from the doorway. Eavesdropping, probably, but there are bigger things to worry about at the moment. "Change of plans," he says brusquely. "The fight's been postponed for two days, and we're all going to the banquet tonight."

Midway looks irritated. "Two days? Here?"

"Don't be such an elitist," Masada mutters. Although she was in the best shape out of all of them after the plane flight, she's taken a rapid turn for the worse; she looks disoriented and she's blinking rapidly in the light.

"Liking indoor plumbing isn't elitist."

"We _have _indoor plumbing."

"Stop," Khan orders, and they both fall silent. "Your cover identities. Do you know them?"

Masada recites hers perfectly, and while Midway is less sure, Khan thinks he'll be all right. After all, no one at the banquet will ask him what his grandmother's birthday is. He sends them back to their rooms with orders to be ready to leave by four-thirty, and then he locks his door and turns on the television, clicking through to one of the commentator channels. From this he learns that, although he was favored to win the fight just a few hours ago, almost every news outlet and gambling organization has shifted their prediction to even odds. It irritates him more than a little. Mayari is without a doubt the weakest fighter in the field, and while he himself has little experience in the arena, his skills speak for themselves. Khan turns off the TV and sits back on the bed. Wait until the fight happens. Then he'll show them that his win against Baikal was not a fluke.

Khan shifts impatiently in the hallway. His watch says five o'clock exactly, and although they don't want to be the first to show up at the banquet, they certainly don't want to be the last. Midway may be equipped to show that sort of disrespect to his hosts, but Khan isn't. He pounds on Midway's door. "Get out here."

Midway appears moments later, stuffed into a suit and struggling with his tie. "She's not out here yet," he mutters, and Khan doesn't pretend to misunderstand. He assumed that Masada would be on time, but it's five minutes past five and she's not here.

"Her door's open," Midway points out, and Khan looks over and sees that he's right. After a moment's deliberation, he walks across the hall and pushes it open.

The entire room is dark. The blinds have been pulled and the lights are off. Khan feels along the wall for a light switch, but when he turns it on there's a yelp of pain from somewhere in the room. He flips it off, but not before he makes out Masada, curled up on the bed with her face buried in the pillows.

"Masada?" he asks, taking another step into the room but leaving the lights off. Midway, standing at the door, makes as though to enter as well, but Khan shoos him out. It will not do for one of Balanchine's trainees to know details about this - whatever _this _is. "What is happening?"

"Migraine." The word sounds like it's coming out through clenched teeth. "Even thinking hurts."

Migraine. A headache. Khan raises his eyebrows, thinking that maybe Dr. Singh should have adjusted Malak's pain receptors after all. "We have to leave for the banquet. Are you ready to go?"

"Light hurts my eyes, and I've thrown up twice," she says. Khan sees her shift position, clasping her hands over her ears. "Don't like noise much either. I can't go."

"Chalice said specifically that you were supposed to go," Khan says. This whole debacle is making them even later. "It can't be that bad. Get up."

To her credit, Masada attempts to stand. Her face screwed up in agony, she manages to get her feet over the side of the bed, but as soon as she stands up she starts swaying wildly and nearly falls over. Khan manages to redirect her so she falls back on the bed, and he faces facts. She's not faking. She can't go anywhere in this state. And his job will be much easier if he can talk to Nadezhda Peres without worrying that she'll spot her supposedly dead daughter over his shoulder. "All right. Stay here."

There's no response except for some nodding. Khan turns to leave and he's almost out the door before it occurs to him that perhaps something should be said. "I hope you feel better soon."

No response, and he closes the door quietly behind him, feeling out of his depth with the entire situation.

"So?" Midway demands.

"She's not going," Khan says, adding no further information. He walks down the hall to the elevator, knowing that Midway will follow him and turning over the events in his head. He's heard of trainees getting headaches before. In fact, he remembers having a few himself, but they were minor irritations, things to be lived through. In all his years in the compound he's never seen a headache so bad that it impairs one's vision and balance. It worries him a little, but he's not about to show that, and he keeps his face neutral as he enters the banquet hall.

Khan's worried that he'll have to supervise Midway, but the other man is far better at the public-relations side of things than Khan. He sits down between a representative from the EU and another one from the U.S. and within minutes has them all roaring with laughter. For his part, Khan keeps his eyes on the door, waiting for Nadezhda Peres to arrive. He's expecting her to look exactly like her daughter, and as a result, he nearly misses her when she does show up.

Unlike Masada, Dr. Peres is blond. Her features are more angular than her daughter's, with an almost hooked nose and full lips. She is tall and slim, and the way she walks - or rather, stalks - through the room reminds him almost of a bird of prey. As she comes closer, he notices the one similarity between Dr. Peres and her daughter; they both have dark eyes.

He stands up and extends his hand to shake. "Dr. Peres. It's an honor."

Without missing a beat, she shakes his hand. "Khan. I was informed that you needed to speak with me."

Khan glances around. There are too many people in this area, so he begins to walk, beckoning Dr. Peres along with him. She speaks first. "I was impressed by your performance in the fight against Baikal, although I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Chalice's protégé rose to the occasion."

Khan finds it odd that she can speak of the fights so casually, when's she's publicly made her true feelings known on the industry that her research spawned. "Baikal is a powerful fighter," he says neutrally. "Without Chalice's help I would not have beaten him."

"I heard that Chalice was not terminated after her last fight," Dr. Peres says. She studies Khan intently and again he's reminded of a hawk. "I also heard that you were the one who convinced Ravi to keep her alive."

Khan searches for a response that will not embarrass the program. "Dr. Singh did not want her terminated in the first place. I merely provided reasoning for his decision."

The doctor's lips curve upward, and her smile reminds Khan strongly of her daughter's. "Very astute."

"I apologize. I've failed to offer my condolences on the death of your daughter," Khan says a moment later, the words falling too easily from his lips. "Our thoughts are with you."

"Thank you," Dr. Peres says, and when he sees grief flicker across her face, Khan almost wishes he could tell her that her daughter still lives. But she'll find out soon enough and so he stays silent. "Now, Khan, what was it you were ordered to speak with me about?"

He spots a quieter room and ducks in, only to find several dignitaries drinking together. Two of them wear Russian insignias, and Khan retreats in a hurry. "In a moment, Dr. Peres. What brings you to Kinshasa?"

"A meeting of the International AIDS Coalition. One out of every four people on this continent is infected with the disease."

Khan raises his eyebrows. "AIDS has been cured."

For a second, Dr. Peres just stares at him, and then the anger he was expecting when she first saw him boils over. "Are you really so foolish, Khan?"

"Hasn't it been cured?" he says, off-balance now.

"Yes, but do you know how?" He doesn't respond, and Dr. Peres correctly interprets his silence as a negative. She shakes her head. "It's cured by genetic enhancement. Do you think that comes cheaply?"

She keeps walking, her shoulders squared as though she's ready for a fight, and Khan trails behind her. Now he understands. AIDS has only been cured in rich countries, countries that can afford to genetically enhance anyone infected. For the African countries, so poor that they cannot finance the creation of even one champion, genetic enhancement for one in four of their citizens would be impossible.

Dr. Peres disappears into a room and Khan follows. She crosses her arms. "What is it your organization needs my help with?"

Khan senses that he must get to the point. "One of our researchers has been developing a virus, unbeknownst to the rest of the team. We don't know what it is or what it does, and due to your work with the CDC, we were hoping you would be able to tell us."

"Don't use the royal we, Khan. It doesn't suit you." Dr. Peres tilts her head, considering it. "This researcher wouldn't happen to be Antonia Balanchine, would it?"

"Yes. That's why we -" Khan pauses and adjusts his phrasing "- I came to you."

Dr. Peres looks interested. "Describe the virus."

"The researchers believe it's a filovirus," Khan says. The word means nothing to him, but the doctor's eyebrows go up.

"She's always enjoyed playing with fire, but I doubt even Antonia would be stupid enough to tamper with the Ebola virus," she murmurs. "How is it being stored?"

"Cold rooms," Khan says. "Locked cases."

"That's all?" Dr. Peres raises her eyebrows. "Filoviruses carry a Level Four biohazard warning. Your researchers should be more careful. Has any of it escaped?"

"I don't know."

"Find out," Dr. Peres orders. "If there's contamination, the consequences for both the program and the world would be ghastly."

"Why?" Already Dr. Peres knows far more about the situation than Khan does, and it's frustrating him.

"Filoviruses can be quite destructive," Dr. Peres says. "Consider the Zaire strain of the Ebola virus. It causes hemorrhagic bleeding and is fatal in eighty percent of cases. Imagine something like that getting loose in your compound."

Khan doesn't want to imagine it. Who knows what Balanchine has done to an already-lethal virus? "What should I tell my associates?"

"Tell them to handle it with care," Dr. Peres directs. "Order them to destroy as much of it as they can. And under no circumstances are they to test it on _anything_."

"Thank you, Dr. Peres," Khan says. He has to call Chalice, warn her what she's dealing with, before someone makes a deadly mistake. Then he remembers the last question Chalice told him to ask. "Do you have any idea what it might be used for?"

Dr. Peres pauses, considering it, then shakes her head. "Unfortunately, I have no idea. My field is genetics, not infectious diseases." She checks her watch. "I must go. Good luck in your fight, Khan."

Then she's gone, sweeping out the door, and a few moments later, Khan follows her. He can't get her words out of his head - _destructive, fatal, contamination _- and they frighten him more than he wants to admit. Give him an opponent, human, trainee, champion (or even alien, he thinks darkly) and he will have a fighting chance of defeating it. But there is no way to fight a virus, and after he calls Chalice, Khan forces himself to think of something, anything else.

He can discipline his mind, but he has no control over his subconscious. That night he dreams of nothing but the labyrinth and an invisible enemy stalking him through its endless corridors.

* * *

**Please review.**


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Thanks to Anla'shok, Sam Mayer, and Nim for the reviews. This chapter is quite lengthy, but I didn't feel it was appropriate to split it in two.

* * *

_come up and dance with death_

Khan can't shake the feeling that Dr. Peres knows far more about the world than he does, and it frustrates him. He has access to top-secret government files. He can summon almost anyone within the program and they will be required to answer his questions. Yet he can't ignore the way Nadezhda Peres looked at him when he stated that AIDS had been cured; a mixture of exasperation and pity, as though she was looking at a precocious child who'd gotten his facts wrong.

He mentioned it to Chalice on the phone, as an aside, but she'd cut him off. "That's not your problem, Khan. Focus on the fight."

He supposes she's right. But has more than twenty-four hours before the fight, and he can't spend the entire time sitting in his room staring at the ceiling. Khan wakes Midway by pounding on the wall between their rooms and suggests to Midway when he appears that they head down to the training room in the basement for some practice.

"Food first," Midway grunts. "I'm not fighting on an empty stomach."

Khan slides a note beneath Masada's closed door and then heads down to breakfast. Once they've eaten, they proceed to the training room. Khan trounces Midway in three straight fights, and they're gearing up for a fourth when Masada enters the room. Khan lets Midway out of the headlock and shoves him away, studying Masada, looking for any remnants of her condition last night. There are none. She appears to have recovered completely.

"I thought I'd join you," she says by way of explanation, picking through the room until she comes to a heavy bag. She straps on gloves and starts punching.

Midway stares at her, utterly bemused, and after a minute he scoops up a blunted training sword and tosses it in her direction. "Let's see how you fight."

Khan stops him as he reaches for another sword. "I think not, Midway."

"It's fine," Masada says, coming toward them with the sword in hand. "I could use the practice."

Khan watches her as she duels Midway. She holds up against him far better than Khan was expecting, but then again, the sword is not Midway's weapon of choice. He tries a series of attacks, forcing her to retreat, before knocking the practice sword out of her hand with a massive blow. Masada dives for her weapon, avoiding Midway's next strike, and hits him across the knees with the blunt edge of the sword. He yelps in pain and backs off.

"The fight was over the minute you lost your weapon," he tells her, hopping from foot to foot.

"No, it's over when your opponent gives up," Masada disagrees. She's holding her weapon in the wrong hand, and Khan knows why; having a weapon struck from your hand is quite painful.

"Technically, yeah," Midway says, "but that dive for your sword was stupid. Any competent fighter would have hacked off your head."

Masada considers this for a moment. Then she switches her sword to her good hand and says, "Again."

It occurs to Khan that he's never seen Masada fight before. She's not as bad as he was expecting, but the sight of her dueling Midway does not assuage his fears in the slightest. If she cannot beat Midway, a trainee who is not good enough for the arena, how can she hope to survive against true champions?

He stops the fight. "Try another weapon," he tells Masada. "The sword is not for you."

Masada goes back to the weapons racks and returns with a spear. Khan frowns. "Don't fight. Just run practice drills."

"She's holding it wrong," Midway observes.

Khan wishes he'd hit Midway harder during their fights. Not only are Masada's hands out of position, she's holding the spear parallel to the ground instead of at the ready. If someone attacked her, she'd be unable to counter the blow.

"It's like she's got a staff or something," Midway continues. "Like the little kids use."

A staff. An idea forms in Khan's mind at the words, and he goes over to Masada. He takes the spear, removes the metal spike on the end, and hands it back to her. Then he lifts a practice sword and takes up a position a few feet away from her. "Attack me," he says, and she does.

A few moments into the fight, it becomes clear that something is wrong. Masada blocks his strikes too easily, aims too accurately for his weak points. Her control is excellent; no wild strikes or unnecessary movement. A strike at his wrist nearly knocks his sword from his hand, and, hiding his shock, Khan goes on the offensive, fighting as though his life is truly at stake. She falls back under the onslaught, her technique becoming sloppier. A hard hit on her shoulder deadens one arm, and as she struggles to renew her grip, Khan brings his practice sword down on the staff and breaks it in two.

Midway whistles. "She almost had you there."

Khan stares at Masada. He's beginning to get an inkling of why she was chosen as his partner. "How did you do that?"

"I was ordered to study your fighting style," Masada says. She throws the broken staff aside and rubs her shoulder. "So I did. I could block your strikes because I knew what your favorite attacks were. I also counted on you to underestimate me, and you did, but once you got your head in the game I didn't stand a chance."

"You gave him a good scare, though," Midway says, snickering. "I haven't seen him that spooked since he was a trainee."

"Leave us," Khan orders, and Midway, still cackling to himself, exits, closing the door behind him. He turns to Masada, who is rotating her shoulder and wincing. "Are you all right?"

"Would you ask Midway the same question?" she says pointedly.

Khan's not sure what she's implying, but it unsettles him even more. "Midway's pain receptors and bone density have been altered. Yours haven't."

"I'm all right."

Khan searches for something else to say. "Has Chalice considered a staff as your weapon?"

"No, but if you recommend it, I'm sure she will," Masada says. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "You're acting strange."

Khan thinks for a moment, and then he realizes what's bothering him. Ordinarily, he'd share this with Chalice, but Chalice is not here, and Masada is trustworthy enough. "If Mayari has the foresight to study my fighting as well, I will lose tomorrow."

Masada laughs. "Mayari? She can't study your fighting style; you've only had one public fight. I could only do it because I have access to your training records. You're safe."

"Why did Chalice ask you to study my records?"

"I'm supposed to be your partner," Masada says with a shrug, as if that explains everything. "They want me to know your weaknesses so I can compensate for them in my own fighting style. Not that I have a style - at this point, I'm just trying to avoid getting my skull split."

The idea of Masada shaping her fighting style to his does not sit well with Khan. He has weaknesses - he knows them, of course - but if Masada is adjusting to them, shouldn't he be adjusting to hers? Perhaps she's too inexperienced to develop a true weakness yet. Ever since the fight, if one can even call it that, between Masada and Marathon, he has taken an interest in his future partner's training, but there are some things, like this, that he would prefer not to know.

* * *

Someone is shaking Khan awake from a dream of the labyrinth, someone whose face he cannot see, and he reacts accordingly. He kicks the man in the stomach and sends him flying across the room. Then he's out of the bed, stalking toward the fallen man, ready to kick or hit again if the man becomes threatening. "Who are you?"

The man fumbles at the wall and hits the light switch. It's their guide, and Khan feels a twinge of remorse. "My apologies," the man stammers, "but we must leave now for the arena."

"Why?" Khan knows that the Kinshasa arena is not within the city itself, but he wasn't aware that it was necessary to leave in the middle of the night to reach it on schedule.

The guide doesn't answer. "We must leave now," he repeats, and Khan gathers his weapons and uniform and follows the man out the door.

Masada and Midway are both in the hallway, but Khan has no time to speak to them; the guide is already hurrying them down the hall. One of the doors they pass is open, and through the curtains, Khan sees a flash of red light, but it vanishes before he can identify its source.

Down a flight of service stairs, out the door, into a waiting car. Then they're off through the darkened, winding streets of Kinshasa. Khan sees the flash again, closer this time, and turns to the others. "Did you -"

"I saw," Midway says. His face is pale. "It looked like an artillery shell to me."

An artillery shell? Khan sees another flash, and this time, he pays attention, noting its trajectory, its height, and its size. A shell that large must have come from a tank, but what on earth is a tank doing in the middle of a city?

Masada is staring out the back window. "There's a car following us," she reports.

"For protection," the guide says hurriedly. Midway turns on him.

"Protection from what?"

But before the guide can answer, there's yet another flash, and this time, the shell is close enough that they can hear the resulting explosion as it strikes the side of a building and brings the entire structure down.

"What the hell?" Midway screeches. He grabs the guide by the front of his shirt and shakes him. "What is going on?"

Masada is staring out the back window, watching the building collapse, and the light from another shell illuminates her face. Khan can see the strangest expression on her face; a mixture of fear and surprise. He has the sudden urge to pull her back from the window, but he ignores it and turns his attention to the guide. The man is already spilling out the information.

"The city is under attack. We are evacuating all foreign nationals."

"Where are we going?" Khan demands. "Another airport?"

The guide shakes his head. "No. The arena."

"What?" Masada says, turning away from the window. "The fight is still going to happen?"

"Fights aren't called off. Not unless something big happens," Midway says. He glances at Masada and rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows that."

"I'd think a hostile takeover of the capital of the host country would qualify," Masada says angrily, but Khan cuts her off.

"If we leave, we forfeit. And we cannot afford to lose the Rio Grande," Khan says. "We are staying."

"The arena is far enough away that you will be safe," the guide insists, looking from Masada to Khan anxiously. Khan knows why the man is so nervous; payment for the use of an arena depends upon the fight actually occurring, and the Congolese government desperately needs the money.

Masada looks as though she wants to say more, but Khan gives her a look and she remains silent. Midway lets go of the guide at last and slumps back in his seat. Khan, meanwhile, crosses to the back window, and he and Masada watch the shelling of Kinshasa in silence until the city vanishes into darkness behind them.

* * *

The countdown clicks to the end and Khan explodes into the arena, ready to run full-tilt until he finds an appropriate hiding spot - and then he stops dead, skidding on the packed dirt and barely avoiding falling down an embankment. The Kinshasa arena is vast; twenty miles long and ten across at its widest point. For this fight, it has been groomed into an African savanna. All Khan can see is an endless field of waving grass, punctuated here and there by tall, umbrella-like acacia trees, and for a moment he just stares in dismay. How on earth is he going to find Mayari in all of this?

His two minutes - the time has been changed to accommodate the size of the arena - are ticking away, and for lack of any other option, Khan begins to run again, sliding down the embankment and into the grasslands. He has no idea where they will release Mayari from, but he knows that it will be from the edge of the arena, and so the most logical choice is to head straight for the center of the arena and hope that he is the faster of the two.

Khan is in the middle of fording a wide but shallow river when a flare is shot off from somewhere above him, signaling that his two minutes are up and that Mayari has entered the arena. The accompanying flash of red light reminds him of the attack on Kinshasa, but Khan stops the line of thought before it can progress to its conclusion and forces himself to focus on the river. It is too shallow for crocodiles, but he is unfamiliar with this terrain and he has no idea of what other dangers might lurk.

Once he's crossed the river and stands on its other side, he becomes acutely aware of the sun beating down. His uniform will protect him somewhat, but his head is uncovered and his pale skin will not hold up well against the brightness. It is noon and the hottest hours of the day are still before him. Khan glances at the river, then at the swaying grass, then down at his own pale hands. He was trained to fight. But in this arena, survival skills are more important than he would have thought.

Khan decides that the risks of drinking unpurified river water outweigh the risks of dehydration at the moment and moves on, in search of any outcropping that might offer shade. No sign of Mayari anywhere. An hour passes. Khan is drenched in sweat; he can see dark patches on his white uniform, and his hands are so slick that he can barely grip the handle of his sword. Finally, after determining that Mayari is nowhere in sight, Khan sheathes the sword and keeps moving. He began his trek at a jog, but it's deteriorated into a careful walk. Khan does not want to tire himself out by running in the heat.

The fight with Baikal was over in half an hour, and in ten years of watching the fights, Khan has never seen a fight continue longer than two hours. This fight is pushing three. While Mayari has yet to make an appearance, Khan has seen a small herd of zebra, a trio of hopping animals with oddly curved horns, and various birds and smaller animals, including one ugly creature that hissed at him before vanishing into the undergrowth. He was so startled by this last that he drew his sword and lashed out, only to fumble the weapon. Embarrassed, Khan rubs some dirt on his hands for better grip and picks the sword up again. He estimates he's traveled ten miles or so, putting himself in the center of the arena. He might as well stop here.

Khan takes a leaf out of Baikal's book and scales the nearest acacia tree, scanning the grass for movement, but it occurs to him as he does this that Mayari will have to be quite close to him for him to spot her. Perhaps she has not made good time through the arena, or perhaps she did not move from her place at all, and at this very moment she is waiting for him to seek her out. For a moment Khan considers it - traveling by night through the arena, hunting Mayari down and forcing her to surrender both the fight and her country's claim to the Rio Grande - and then he rejects it. Mayari is not a patient fighter. She will be looking for him. All he must do is wait.

He settles down in the tree, keeping his head on a constant swivel to survey the arena, and as he does, his mind wanders back to the hours before the fight began. No one seemed to know what happened in Kinshasa; not the guide, not the UN officials refereeing the fight, not the dignitaries from the United States and the Contra states who came to watch. Midway and Masada, for once cooperating with each other, were reviewing the footage from the spycams at the United States embassy, searching for clues. When he departed for the launch room, they had uncovered next to nothing, but he remembers Masada mentioning that while the U.S. embassy had been untouched, the EU consulate had been demolished by a rain of artillery shells. The United States has many more enemies than the Europeans; why would any attacker hit the EU and leave the U.S.?

Khan has studied war. While Dr. Singh may not envision the trainees as a future military force, the idea of a genetically enhanced army has certainly crossed someone's mind; from an early age, Khan and his fellows studied tactics and weaponry. In addition to their weapons training, many of them were trained to operate massive weapons systems, hack computers, and fly warplanes. At Dr. Singh's request, Khan was also tutored in international politics, studying old alliances and older hatreds. And yet with all of this, he cannot imagine why someone would attack such a small target as Kinshasa and, in the process, offend the EU and nearly derail an arena fight.

Night falls on the savanna, and to his horror, Khan finds himself beginning to nod off. He shakes himself awake, tightens his grip on his sword, and resumes his scan of the arena. It would be just like Mayari to attempt a night attack, playing on some ridiculous idea that Khan, relatively new to the arena, would be frightened of the dark. His eyes catch on something moving in the grass perhaps forty feet away from the tree. It is moving in a straight line and is unlikely to come into contact with the tree. Khan grins. There is Mayari at last, and it seems she is so bent on whatever she is doing that she's missed his position entirely. He slides silently out of the tree and lands lightly on the ground, creeping along through the grass, planning to catch up with her from behind and end the fight fast. To think, he was so concerned about her, and here she is, making a mistake that even Midway would avoid.

Something rustles in the grass behind him, and he startles. There is no way that Mayari has circled around behind him; he can still see the crouching figure moving through the grass ahead. He turns slowly, sword in hand, and finds himself caught in the stare of a pair of reflective eyes, peering up at him from waist-height in the grass.

_That's not Mayari_.

The lion pounces, bowling Khan over. His sword arm flies out to one side, pinned underneath the animal's paw, and its jaws snap at his throat before he grabs its head with one hand and throws it aside. It prowls around him, snarling, and through the adrenaline, he feels a stinging pain along his ribs, but he cannot think about that, because the lion is lunging again, and just like Chalice taught him, he pivots to one side and hacks it in two with his sword.

Suddenly, Khan realizes what the moving shapes in the grass are; a pride of lions, hunting at night, searching for prey, and here he is, bleeding and clearly caught by surprise. An icy knot of fear clenches in his stomach, reminding him that for all his skill, he is no predator. Knowing that he must get out of the grass, he makes for his tree, running, making only the smallest attempt to be quiet. He hears a soft snarl in the grass behind him and increases his pace, but it is not enough. Khan has just enough time to turn before the second lion leaps at him.

Its claws dig deep into his side and he stabs it repeatedly, driving his sword into its underbelly even as it claws and bites at him. When it falls away, another lion materializes from the grass, but this one is wary; it circles him, staying low in a crouch. Khan makes a wild slash at it with his sword, but it barely flinches, and the movement throws him off-balance even more. Now he, too, can smell the copper tang of blood in the air. He expects the lion to attack him, but instead, the creatures growls low in its throat and ducks back into the brush, leaving him alone.

For a moment Khan can do nothing but stand there, his chest heaving, his mind racing, blood dripping from the claw marks on his abdomen to the ground; then some part of his training kicks in and he makes for the tree in a stumbling run, scrambling into the upper branches. Somehow he manages to hang onto his sword, and once he has settled himself into the crux of two branches, he takes stock of the situation.

This is a disaster; there is no other way to phrase it. He is injured, losing blood, and he has yet to even encounter his opponent. Khan cautiously probes at the gouges along his ribs, clenching his jaw to avoid any noise that might result, and his fingers come away dark and slick. The wounds are not terribly deep, but there are many of them, and in even the small amount of time it will take them to heal he will lose at least a pint of blood. And without adequate food or water, it will be impossible for him to replace the lost volume with new cells quickly enough to avoid the negative effects of blood loss.

A plan forms quickly in Khan's mind. He will wait, yes, until the wounds have closed, and then he will set out across the arena in search of Mayari. More than likely, Mayari will be searching for him, too; they have been in the arena for at least seven hours, and she will be getting impatient. Khan harbors a faint hope that she, too, encountered the same animal trouble that he did, but he doubts it. From this point on, he must operate under the assumption that Mayari is fully functional and hunting for him, and he must react accordingly.

* * *

It is almost dawn when Khan slides unsteadily out of the tree, the wounds on his abdomen covered by weak scabs. Sword in hand, he sets off through the grasslands at a fast walk, ignoring the pounding in his head. His mouth is dry, but his hands are steady and his vision is mostly level, and that is enough.

Khan runs through everything he knows about Mayari, trying to determine where she would hide, and he eventually decides to strike out for the river. Water is the most precious resource in the Contra countries - it is what this fight is about, after all - and perhaps Mayari will assume that he places the same importance on it as she does. She will guard the river. And he will find her there and force her to surrender the fight.

Khan repeats this objective over and over again, refusing to consider what will happen if he is wrong, if he expends his energy reaching the river and finds nothing. In the back of his mind, too, he is weighing the risk of drinking unpurified river water against the risk of continuing on in the face of blood loss and dehydration. His immune system has been strengthened against all manner of diseases, but he doesn't know if waterborne illnesses were included, and if he becomes ill, he will place himself at a greater disadvantage.

Khan tries to think what Chalice would do in this situation, what Azrael would do, even what Masada or Midway would do, but he draws a blank. In sixteen years of fighting, Chalice never faced an arena like this. One thing is for certain, the UN officials have outdone themselves on this fight; here, at last, is an arena that favors no one, plays to no one's strengths. The sun climbs high in the sky, beating down on him, and he can feel sweat dripping slowly down his back, water he can ill afford to lose at this stage. He increases his pace.

His sword falls from his hand and he scrambles to pick it back up. His hands are crusty with blood, and slick with sweat, and he can barely grip the weapon. He tears a strip of fabric from his uniform and wraps his palm, then grabs the sword again and sets off. Through the swaying grass, he can see the glint of the river ahead. He stumbles once, then settles himself again and keeps walking, fighting the urge to bolt for the water.

Khan gives the riverbank a rudimentary scan, checking the opposite side even though Mayari has no long-range weapon, and then comes to the water's edge, setting his sword aside. At first he intends only to rinse his hands and splash some water on his face, but before he can stop himself, he is scooping up handfuls of the water and guzzling it down. Then he stops, hands dripping, and looks down at his reflection in the rippling water. It is calm here, calm enough that he can see his own face; pale, sweaty, disheveled. And then he sees the figure looming large over his shoulder.

Khan doesn't think twice before diving headfirst into the water, sucking in a breath before he submerges himself. A hand plunges into the river after him, gripping his hair, and, remembering the severed head of the Far Eastern champion in Mayari's bloody hands, he reaches up and breaks three of the Contra fighter's fingers before she releases him. Still underwater, Khan lashes out and knocks Mayari's legs out from beneath her, and as she struggles back to her feet he bursts from the water and comes face to face with his enemy for the first time.

Mayari is dressed in green, her long black hair braided in a halo around her head. The face paint she customarily wears for a fight is nearly gone, smeared away or sweated away or wiped out by the water, but her eyes are cold and calculating, and Khan knows instantly that she is not intimidated by him in the slightest.

She sniffs the air. "I smell blood," she says in barely-accented English, her eyes skimming over him, taking in the torn-away portions of his uniform, the dried blood staining the white fabric. "Did this arena get the better of you so easily, fierce one?"

At the end of the sentence she strikes at him, uncoiling the whip from her side and hitting him across the face. She follows up with a swing of her war hammer, which Khan evades only to walk right into the whip. One side of his face feels like it's on fire, and his vision goes dark for a moment. He forces himself to focus on Mayari. He stops the second swing of the hammer, snapping Mayari's wrist in the process, and shoves her back, only to have her lunge for him again as though the injury hasn't occurred. By his catalogue of her injuries, both of her hands are incapacitated, and yet she keeps moving, keeps fighting.

Khan kicks her hard in the stomach, driving her back into deeper water, and then leaps forward. The water closes over Mayari's head and he attempts to hold her down, only to have her punch him twice in the stomach and once in the groin, and at that point, he lets go and stumbles back, on the defensive once again. He makes for the bank, attempting to retrieve his sword, but Mayari's whip catches him across the back when he's halfway there and he goes facedown into the water. Khan flips over just in time to plant both feet on Mayari's chest as she bends over him and shove her back, sending her flying into the middle of the river.

Breathing hard, pain lancing through his body from so many sources that he cannot identify which one is worse, he struggles up to his feet again. No time to go for the sword; he will merely expose his back to the whip again. His only option is to clinch with her, end it quickly, but in his current state, he doesn't know if he can subdue her. As Mayari rises, up to her neck in the water, Khan's eyes pick out something in the river behind her. For a moment he thinks he's hallucinating, but there's no mistaking that shape, pedaling through the water, barely visible but closing the distance fast.

Time. He needs time. He addresses Mayari. "Where is your honor, when you attack a fleeing opponent?"

Mayari laughs. "How strange that you should speak to me of honor when the country you represent has none. You are liars and thieves, every last one of you."

"How dare you call me dishonorable? Would you dishonor Chalice, too?" Khan challenges. He knows that Chalice is legendary among the champions, and invoking her name should stop Mayari, at least for a moment.

"She had more honor than most," Mayari admits, "but you are nothing like her."

Three. Two. One. Khan counts down as the crocodile's jaws open and close on the Contra champion. Her scream is horrible. Khan climbs onto the bank as Mayari grapples with the enormous reptile, observing dispassionately. "You're right," he says as the water churns. "I'm nothing like her."

Mayari's whip is useless against the monster. He sees her break its grip once, twice, but then it locks its jaws around her and rolls, hoping to drown her. Khan realizes perhaps too late what he has done. She cannot break free from the creature. It will kill her, and then he, he and no one else, will be responsible for the death of another champion. It is one thing to kill someone in self-defense; it is another to sit idle and watch them die, and while Khan may be comfortable with the former, he cannot abide the latter.

Khan grabs his sword from where it lies discarded on the riverbank and plows into the river. The noise startles the crocodile, and it stops its rolling, Mayari limp in its jaws. Khan grips the back of Mayari's uniform with one hand and hacks indiscriminately at the crocodile with his sword, the blows leaving long gashes in the creature's thick skin. When he feels the creature's grip on Mayari loosen, he pulls her free, deals the crocodile a massive swipe across the head, and swims for shore, dragging the Contra champion behind him.

Khan hauls Mayari onto the riverbank and spins around, scanning the water for the crocodile. But the beast has slid back into the river. Even so, he is careful not to present his back to the water as he crouches down to examine Mayari.

It does not look good. The Contra champion is unconscious; the front of her uniform is shredded and bloody; and worst of all, she's not breathing. Her pulse is faint at best. Khan stares at her hopelessly for a moment, trying to judge the likelihood of broken ribs, and then decides that he cannot afford to wait. He begins CPR. The gong sounds, ending the fight and startling him, but he keeps going. He is the first to admit that he knows little about either medicine or physiology, but he knows that the longer the brain is deprived of oxygen, the less likely the patient is to recover, and he did not rescue Mayari from the crocodile to have her die on him.

Mayari's mouth opens and a gush of pink-tinged water spills out. Khan barely manages to turn her on her side in time, and she lies there, coughing and gagging, tears streaming from her eyes. Khan sits back on his heels, watching her, and from somewhere above him, he hears the sound of helicopter blades beating the air. The officials are coming to retrieve them.

Mayari spits out more water and, with some effort, turns her head to look at him. "I was wrong about you," she gasps, her voice hoarse, and then the helicopter lands and a group of medics and officials charge onto the scene. Mayari vanishes from view behind a crowd of white-coated doctors, and Khan never gets the chance to ask her what she means.

He feels his eyelids sliding shut, and he makes no effort to keep himself awake, sliding into darkness even as the medics approach him and the amplified voice of the announcer declares victory for the United States.

* * *

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